\ 
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BY 


.Saint    £,  o  u  t  s  : 
PRINTED  BY  CHARLES  fc  HAMMOND,   BOOK  AND  JOB  PRINTERS. 

1852. 


tir  mtf  9?ife  nni 


PREFACE. 


THE  present  volume  is  intended  rather  as  a  Gift-Book  and  tribute  of  respect  to 
my  particular  friends,  and  a  few  others,  than  for  any  profit  I  expect  to  derive  from 
the.publication.  A  few  surplus  copies  only,  will  be  sold — these  will  not  pay  half 
the  expense  of  printing. 

Most  of  the  following  pieces  were  written  many  years  ago,  to  beguile  a  lonely 
hour  in  the  dull,  monotonous  "  round"  of  a  country  Pedagogue,  and  have  not  been 
revised  since.  Many  of  them  would  have  been  entirely  omitted  if  the  book  had 
been  designed  for  a  more  general  circulation. 

My  first  efforts  were  experimental,  merely  to  satisfy  myself  if  I,  too,  could  write 
Poetry,  like  "uncle  John."  This  uncle  was  a  notable  Schoolmaster  in  his  day, 
and  a  most  worthy  man — but  has  long  since  passed  away.  I  still  remember  some 
of  his  poems — his  Rules  for  Health,  and  Maxims  of  Morality — and  shall  ever 
entertain  a  grateful  sense  of  his  uniform  kindness  to  me.  The  result  of  my  early 
attempts  appeared  in  sundry  Acrostics  and  Sonnets  to  the  neighboring  school-girls, 
some  of  which  received  a  flattering  notice,  even  from  "  uncle  John."  Thus 
encouraged,  my  next  ambition  was  to  see  myself  in  print  in  some  of  the  country 
newspapers  ;  and  though  more  than  thirty  years  ago,  I  still  retain  a  pleasing  recol- 
lection of  the  time,  when  eagerly  unfolding  the  damp  and  long-expected  weekly 
sheet,  I  first  saw  my  own  composition,  over  my  own  initials,  in  a  column,  at  the 
top  of  which  appeared  in  large  capitals,  POETRY.  This  was  one  of  the  happiest 
days  of  my  life,  and  some  dozen  copies  of  the  paper,  with  a  pencil  line  around  the 
piece,  and  a  hand  pointing  thus  OgF"  to  my  initials  at  the  bottom,  were  enclosed 
in  yellow  wrappers,  and  directed  and  mailed  to  my  distant  friends.  I  next  aspired 
to  write  for  the  Magazines,  and  appeared  in  Graham's,  the  Lady's  Book,  New  York 
Knickerbocker,  and  others,  till  the  rapid  development  of  the  bump  of  Acquisitive, 
ness  left  but  little  room  for  Ideality,  and  I  ceased  to  write— for  who  ever  heard  of 
a  c<  Money  Lender  "  writing  Poetry  ! ! ! 

If  there  is  any  thing  objectionable  among  the  light  and  humorous  pieces,  it  is 
not  my  fault,  but  should  be  attributed  to  my  Muse  ;  she  was  ever  wayward  and 
untractable,  roaming  wild  and  untamed  over  the  vast  prairies  of  the  West :  I 
A* 


could  not  always  keep  her  under  proper  restraint.  And  if,  among  the  one  hundred 
pieces  in  the  present  collection,  but  ten  can  be  found  that  will  favorably  compare 
with  the  poetry  of  the  day,  remember  that  only  ten  righteous  persons  were  once 
required  to  save  a  whole  city  from  destruction. 

May  every  Reader  find  something  in  the  following  pages  that  shall  amuse  or 
please — some  verse,  or  line,  or  word  of  hope,  that  shall  cheer  or  strengthen  in  the 
great  "Battle  of  Life."  And  may  this  book  serve  as  a  pleasing  memento  to  my 
Friends,  and 

"  Long  keep  my  memory  green  in  their  souls." 

J.    S.    F. 

ST.  Louis,  NOVEMBER  19th,  1852. 


INDEX. 


PAGE. 

A  Vision 44 

A  Revery \ 52 

A  Glance  at  the  Future 58 

A  Good  Wife 78 

A  Domestic  Evening  Scene 83 

A  Thousand  Miles  from  Home 78 

Alethe 109 

A  New  Years  Hymn 113 

Address  to  the  Deity 137 

Be  Grateful 73 

By-Gone  Days 89 

Characteristics 77 

'  Dedication  for  the  Album  of  a  Fair  Unknown 106 

Farewell  to  Tobacco 60 

Happiness 53 

Happy  New  Year 95 

Hope ,.'96 

Hope  On — Hope  Ever 105 

Invocation  to   Hope 13 

Immortality 92 

lone 110 

I  think  of  Thee 115 

Lacy  Castle 62 


8  INDEX. 

Long  Ago 100 

Lines  written  for  a  Sunday  School  Celebration 112 

Lines,  written  November,  1840 125 

Lines,  accompanying  a  New  Year  Gift 126 

Lines,  on  the  Death  of  a  Child 132 

Misery 54 

Musings  in  my  Easy  Chair 79 

My  Childhood's  Home— My  Early  Friends, 81 

Merry  Christmas 93 

My  Wife— My  Boy— and  Me 124 

Morning  Salutation  to  my  Family,  Christmas,  1844 125 

Niagara 71 

N ine  Ye  ars  Ago 87 

Nerer  Despair 93 

Neranthe s Ill 

Ocean 71 

Oh  !  I  am  We  ary 72 

On  the  death  of  Miss  Margaret  Smith 126 

On  the  same 129 

On  the  same 131 

On  the  Death  of  my  Mother 133 

Poland 50 

Pencilings 102 

Selim 34 

Spring 91 

The  Wanderer 13 

The  Bandit  Chief 24 

The  Shipwreck 39 

The  Battle  Field 48 

The  Storm 56 


INDEX.  9 

The  Dream  of  Youth 64 

The  Seasons 65 

The  Staff  of  Life  and  Death 66 

The  Past,  the  Present  and  the  Future 66 

The  Choice 67 

The  Human  Heart .*. 68 

The  Little  White  Cot 69 

The  Prisoner 70 

The  Man  of  Years 73 

The  Happy  Man 74 

The  Man  of  Charity 76 

The  Rainy  Sunday 82 

The  Resolve ._ 83 

True  Happiness 84 

The  Temperance  Reform  of  1842 84 

To  My  Wife 85 

To  My  Boy 86 

The  Three  Pictures 104 

The  Crown,  the  Robe  and  the  Wreath 107 

To  the  Ladies  of  the  Third  Presbyterian  Church 114 

To  Louisa 115 

To  Miss  C.  M.  D 116 

To  My  Cousin  Mary 117 

To  Caroline 118 

To  Margaret J20 

To  Charlotte 121 

To  the  Absent 122 

The  Little  Messenger 122 

The  Recall- ••• 123 

To  my  Father. . . . , , , 135 


10  INDEX. 

The  Light  of  the  Tomb 136 

Wanderings  of  Thought- 59 

LIGHT    AND     HUMOROUS    PIECES. 
A  Valentine 159 

Contrast  No.  I , 162 

Contrast  No.  II 162 

Hard  Times 160 

My  Pantaloons  of  Grey 155 

Music 161 

Old  Bachelors 148 

Petition  to  the  Clerk  of  the  Weather 153 

Posh  Hard 158 

Sunday  Night 154 

St.  Louis 157 

To  the  Ladies  of  St.  Louis 141 

The  Pedagogues  Saturday  Night 145 

The  Ills  of  Life 151 

Wood  Ticks'...  149 


POEMS. 


INVOCATION    TO    HOPE. 


But  let  us  hope — to  doubt  is  to  rebel  ; 

Let  us  exult  in  Hope  that  all  shall  yet  be  well.— BEATTIE. 


HOPE,  ever  changing,  yet  forever  near, 
In  joy  or  grief,  to  prompt,  sustain  or  cheer ; 
The  spring  of  action  since  the  world  began — 
The  all-inspiring,  ceaseless  friend  of  man ; 
The  healing  balm — the  sweetly  soothing  pow'r, 
That  has  beguil'd  full  many  a  weary  hour  ; 
To  thee  I  fainting  turn  : — Oh  !  may  one  ray 
From  thy  undying  lamp  relume  my  darksome  way. 


THE    WANDERER. 
I. 

THROUGH  American  forests  all  lonely  I've  stray'd, 

Where  naught  meets  the  eye  save  what  Nature  has  made — 

Where  the  grey  light  of  morn,  as  the  traveler  wakes 

At  the  water-fowl's  cry  by  the  still  forest  lakes, 

Brings  with  it  the  music  of  birds  on  the  wing, 

Or  among  the  green  branches  soft  notes  murmuring, 

The  dripping  of  dew  on  the  dry  forest  leaves, 

Bespangling  the  web  that  the  wood-spider  weaves, 


14  POEMS   37T   -1.    S.    FRELIGH. 


And  strange-sounding  echoes,  far  off  in  the  glades, 
That  seem  e'en  like  silence,  so  lone  are  those  shades  ; 
Reclining  at  noon  under  tall  leafy  trees, 
The  buzzing  of  insects — the  hum  of  wild  bees, 
Has  lull'd  me  to  sleep,  and  my  dreams  were  as  sweet, 
As  if  lull'd  by  soft  sounds  in  some  marble  retreat  ; 
At  eve  I  would  rest  near  some  murmuring  rill, 
And  list  to  the  notes  of  the  sweet  Whip-poor- Will, 
The  Owlet's  lone  hoot,  or  the  whispering  breeze, 
As,  rustling,  it  shed  the  pale  leaves  of  the  trees, 
That  glanc'd  in  the  moonlight,  as  gently  they  fell 
In  the  dark,  gloomy  shadows  of  some  lonely  dell, 
Where  ivy  and  nightshade,  arid  low-waving  brakes, 
Grow  rank  near  the  borders  of  dim,  misty  lakes. 
I  have  seen  the  rude  torrent  from  forest  hills  pouring, 
While  a  dark-rolling  storm-cloud  above  me  was  low'ring — 
Around  me  all  Nature  dissolving  appear'd, 
As  that  storm-cloud  in  grandeur  above  me  career'd — 
Around  me  tall  trees  in  their  beauty  fell  crashing — 
Above  me  pale  lightnings  were  fearfully  flashing — 
Dark  branches  wav'd  'round  me — the  forest  seem'd  reeling- 
While  thunders  on  thunders  were  awfully  pealing — 
Then  the  deep  roar  of  winds  made  a  sad,  solemn  sound 
As  the  darkness  of  night  in  deep  gloom  clos'd  around. 
In  those  boundless  solitudes,  gloomy  and  still, 
How  hush'd  are  the  boisterous  passions  and  will — 
How  riches,  and  splendor,  and  vanity  fades, 
And  ambition  and  pride,  in  those  deep,  awful  shades ; 
No  selfishness,  envy,  or  vain  worldly  care 
Interrupts  the  warm  heart  from  dissolving  in  pray'r; 
We  feel  our  dependence — we  feel  and  we  see 
The  goodness  and  love  of  a  wise  Deity! 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  15 

II. 

I  have  seen  mighty  armies  all  panoplied  bright, 

And  array 'd  for  the  battle-field,  rush  to  the  fight ; 

I  have  seen  marshal'd  hosts  in  their  glory  laid  low, 

And  the  life-blood  from  many  a  stern  warrior  flow, 

At  Austerlitz,  Jena,  Marengo  I've  bled — 

Borodino's  red  battle-field  cover'd  with  dead 

I  have  seen,  while  the  conqueror's  flag  was  unfurling, 

And  an  "  ocean  of  flame  "  'round  the  Kremlin  was  curling. 

Far  sterner  the  conflict,  far  sadder  the  view, 

At  the  meeting  of  nations  at  fam'd  WATERLOO  ; 

And  never  wore  death  a  more  terrible  form, 

Than  in  fancy  I  saw  'mid  that  fierce  battle-storm. 

For  ten  dreadful  hours,  rag'd  the  hot,  bloody  fight, 

And  for  ten  dreadful  hours,  all  the  skill  and  the  might 

Of  each  army  was  prov'd,  ere  the  battle  was  won 

By  the  veteran  Blucher  and  Duke  Wellington  ; 

And  ten  thousand,  twice  told,  on  the  blood-purchas'd  field, 

Fell  fighting,  determin'd  with  life  but  to  yield. 

While  viewing  the  conflict,  a  youth  caught  my  eye, — 

In  the  midst  of  the  battle-field,  waving  on  high 

Was  the  banner  he  carried,  and  bold  he  advanced, 

While  his  high-mettled  war-horse  as  proudly  he  pranc'd 

To  the  trumpet-tone,  toss'd  from  his  bridle-bit  'round, 

The  foam  in  white  flakes,  on  that  red  battle-ground. 

Just  then  the  dread  roar  of  artillery  sounded 

More  deep,  and  the  cries  of  the  dying  and  wounded 

Fell  sad  on  my  ear  ;  and  alas  !  low  was  laid 

That  warrior  youth  ;  o'er  him  gleaming  swords  play'd, 

And  helmetted  chieftains  dash'd  recklessly  o'er  him, 

Who  had  oft  on  that  bloody  day  trembled  before  him. 

Naught  more  could  I  see,  save  at  times  as  there  broke 

The  bright  flashing  of  swords  through  the  blue-rollino-  smoke 


16  POEMS    BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

That  envelop'd  the  field,  like  some  thunder-cloud  seeming, 
From  whence  the  pale  lightning  is  fearfully  gleaming. 
On  the  red  track  of  war  dire  destruction  attended, 
And  the  wild  shrieks  of  orphans  all  trembling  ascended. 
How  long  shall  proud  kings  to  destroy  he  inclin'd  ] 
How  long  shall  ambition  bring  woe  on  mankind] 

III. 

I  have  been  to  the  land  where  the  wild  Lotus  blooms, 

And  where  sweet-smelling  spbe-woods  shed  richest  perfumes  ; 

Where  oft  on  the  waters  at  sunset,  I've  noted 

The  crimson  Flamingo,  as  gently  it  floated  ; 

Or  the  playful  Gazelles,  as  they  carelessly  stray 'd 

By  the  bow'r  of  some  blooming,  young  Georgian  maid, 

Where  the  breeze,  as  by  moonlight  it  plays  with  the  curls, 

And  bright  golden  ringlets  of  blooming  young  girls, 

Sheds  the  leaves  gently  'round  them  of  sweet-smelling  flow'rsj 

As  reposing  half  hid  in  their  jessamine  bow'rs. 

I  have  seen  the  young  maids  of  Circassia,  whose  tresses 

With  flow'rets  all  garlanded,  float  down  their  dresses 

Of  pale  yellow  silk,  as  they  gracefully  walk 

By  the  side  of  their  lovers,  engag'd  in  sweet  talk, 

'Neath  the  boughs  of  Acacia,  or  .sit  in  the  shade 

Of  their  own  leafy  arbors,  where  love-vows  are  made. 

I  have  sail'd  to  the  sound  of  the  flute  over  waters, 

And  heard  the  sweet  songs  of  the  yellow-hair'd  daughters 

Of  Persia  ;  and  oft  when  the  mid-watch  was  past, 

And  the  lights  one  by  one  had  gone  out,  till  the  last 

Faintly  gleam'd  on  the  waters,  the  soft  notes  were  heard 

Of  the  captive  maid's  lute,  as  the  fitful  breeze  stirr'd, 

And  rustled  the  sweet-smelling  vine  leaves,  and  bore 

Their  fragrance  and  those  lonely  notes  from  the  shore  ; 

All  enraptur'd  I've  listen'd,  till  faint  ar>d  less  clear, 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  17 

In  strains  of  low  music'they  died  on  my  ear. 
Then  the  moon,  as  it  rose,  did  such  glories  unfold, 
As  were  seen  in  the  "  valley  of  visions"  of  old. 
How  serene  and  enchantingly  lovely  earth  seem'd 
To  my  view,  as  the  glorious  flood  of  light  stream'd 
On  magnificent  palaces,  temples,  andtow'rs, 
And  green  isles,  and  gardens  of  beautiful  flow'rs, 
That  floated  on  calm  silver  lakes  or  on  streams, 
Like  the  broad  moon-lit  waters  we  see  in  our  dreams — - 
Where  the  lowly  in  spirit  with  sorrow  oppress'd, 
Might  serenely  sit  down  in  some  sweet  isle  of  rest ; 
Where,  free  from  this  cold  world  of  envy  and  strife, 
He  could  pass  the  last  days  of  his  care-woven  life. 

IV. 

O'er  the  deserts  of  Afric'  all  lonely  I've  pass'd, 

Where  naught  meets  the  eye  but  a  wide  barren  waste, 

Reliev'd  by  no  verdure — wild,  desolate,  dreary, 

Where  naught  cheers  the  traveler,  lone,  faint,  and  weary  ; 

No  streamlets  or  sheltering  groves — not  a  sound, 

Save  the  roar  of  wild  beasts,  as  the  night  darkens  'round. 

Then  I  thought  of  my  friends — of  my  own 'Native  Land, 

Its  arbors  and  cool  groves  by  gentle  gales  fann'd, 

Its  hills  and  its  valleys  with  verdure  o'erspread, 

Where  herds  I  had  tended  in  boyhood,  and  led 

To  drink  of  cool  waters — to  rest  in  the  shade, 

Or  to  crop  the  rich  verdure  that  summer  had  made. 

Then  I  thought  of  my  Mother,  how  she  would  rejoice 

When  return'd  : — I  remember'd  each  tone  of  her  voice, 

As  it  sounded  in  childhood,  and  even  I  heard, 

In  fancy,  the  notes  of  each  sweet-singing  bird — 

My  sister's  glad  voice,  as  together  we've  stray'd 

To  pick  the  wild  flow'rs  of  the  meadow,  or  play'd 


18  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

Through  the  long  summer  day,  where  the  fountain  gush'd  free, 

In  the  wide-spreading  shade  of  the  old  willow  tree. 

Thus  painfully  musing,  as  onward  one  day, 

O'er  the  hot,  sandy  desert  of  wild  Lybia, 

I  journey 'd  all  weary  and  fainting,  I  wept, 

And  sank  on  the  desert  sands  weeping,  and  slept ; 

Then  appear'd  in  a  dream  to  my  wondering  eyes 

A  Spirit,  which  seem'd  from  the  earth  to  arise  ; 

When  thus  a  loud  voice  : — "  I'm  in  every  clime, 

I  was  and  shall  be  for  a  space — I  am  TIME." 


THE   VOICE   OF   TIME. 


I  pass'd  through  Chaldea — the  low-sinking  sun, 
Brightly  beam'd  on  the  temples  of  proud  Babylon. 
For  magnificent  palaces,  high  walls  and  tow'rs — 
For  high-hanging  gardens  of  sweet-scented  flow'rs — 
For  beauty,  and  grandeur,  and  costly  works  rare, 
And  riches,  none  could  with  this  city  compare. 
I  pass'd  through  again — 'twas  a  den  of  wild  beasts, 
Where  once  proud  Belshazzar  held  sumptuous  feasts  : 
The  venomous  serpent  lay  coil'd — creeping  things 
I  found,  where  once  trode  mighty  Princes  and  Kings. 

2. 

I  pass'd  by  great  Nineveh,  second  to  none, 

Save  the  Chaldean  city — vain,  proud  Babylon. 

I  pass'd  by  again — Oh  !  how  fallen,  decay'd  ! 

Her  glory  and  splendor  in  dust  low  were  laid, 

Where  daily  the  beasts  of  the  desert  did  bring 

For  their  hungry  young,  food,  was  the  throne  of  a  King. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  19 

3. 

I  pass'd  by  proud  Illium — the  far-flashing  light 

Of  bright  shields,  dreadful  gleam'd,  like  a  meteor  of  night ; 

And  the  shouting  of  nations  was  heard  from  afar, 

The  rattling  of  chariots — the  thunder  of  war. 

I  pass'd  by  again,  but  no  vestige  I  found 

Of  the  city — lone  tombs  rose  promiscuous  'round 

Where  once  great  Achilles  shone  dreadful  in  war, 

Thro'  the  thickest  fight  borne,  on  his  glittering  car. 

4. 

I  pass'd  by  Persepolis — Xerxes,  the  vain 

And  proudly  ambitious,  o'er  Persia  did  reign  ; 

Her  Princes  in  chariots  splendidly  roll'd 

Thro'  the  city,  in  sumptuous  purple  and  gold. 

I  pass'd  by  again — 'twas  deserted  and  lone, 

And  silent,  excepting  the  mournful  low  moan 

Of  the  night-wind,  that  breath'd  the  lone  ruins  among, 

Where  the  maidens  of  Persia  once  sweetly  had  sung. 

5. 

I  pass'd  by  fam'd  Tyre  in  her  glory  and  pride, 

"  Whose  Merchants  were  Princes,"  and  rul'd  on  the  tide — 

Tall  Cedars  of  Lebanon  wav'd  in  the  breeze, 

That  shook  scented  leaves  from  the  flowering  trees  ; 

I  pass'd  by  again — but  those  Cedars  were  low, 

Those  flow'r  trees  were  wither'd  again  ne'er  to  blow  ; 

Where  once  a  Queen's  palace  stood  lofty  and  grand, 

The  Fisherman  drew  his  long  net  to  the  land. 

6. 

I  pass'd  by  the  city  of  Balbec — renown'd 
For  its  high  column'd  temples  far  glitt'ring  around  ; 


20  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

I  pass'd  by  again  on  one  lone  stilly  night, 
'Twas  deserted  of  men,  and  the  rising  Moon's  light 
Gleam'd  faintly  on  statues  half  buried  in  sand, 
And  on  half  ruin'd  temples,  once  lofty  and  grand. 

7. 

In  the  blaze  of  her  beauty  Palmyra  I  pass'd, 
And  she  shone  like  a  gem  in  a  wild  barren  waste  ; 
Longinus,  the  people  in  honor  had  crown'd, 
And  rich  tones  of  music  were  floating  around. 
I  pass'd  by  again,  but  no  music  I  heard, 
No  sound,  save  the  notes  of  a  lonely  night-bird  ; 
Her  high  marble  columns  in  dust  low  were  laid, 
In  the  garden  where  once  Queen  Zenobia  stray'd. 

8. 

By  the  city  of  Memphis  I  pass'd  in  her  pride  ; 
She  was  gaily  adorn'd  like  a  young  Eastern  bride, 
Deck'd  out  with  fine  diamonds,  and  costly  gems  rare, 
Transcendently  beautiful,  comely  and  fair  ; 
I  pass'd  by  again — all  had  gone  to  decay, 
And  her  once  lofty  temples  had  crumbled  away. 

9. 

I  pass'd  by  fam'd  Thebes — thro'  her  hundred  gates  wide, 
Pass'd  riches,  and  splendor,  and  beauty  and  pride, 
And  multitudes  throng'd  the  wide  streets  on  that  day, 
All  gaily  adorn'd  for  some  coming  display  ; 
I  pass'd  by  again,  but  no  footstep  or  tread 
I  heard — thick  around  rose  the  tombs  of  the  dead  ; 
One  gate  of  its  hundred  remain'd  half  decay'd — 
To  the  winds  of  the  desert  low-creaking  it  sway'd  ; 
Her  statues  disfigur'd  lay  scatter'd  around, 
And  the  ruins  of  temples  half  cover'd  the  ground. 


POEMS    BY   J.    S.    FRELTGH.  21 

10. 

By  the  city  of  Carthage  I  pass'd  in  her  might, 

Her  sons  were  all  hardy,  and  train'd  for  the  fight ; 

For  deliberate  courage,  and  high  martial  fame, 

No  city  e'er  bore  a  more  glorious  name  ; 

Her  arms  had  subdued  the  rjide  nations  around, 

And  had  oft  o'er  the  Romans  with  vic'try  been  crown'd  ; 

I  pass'd  by  again,  but  the  Arab  lurk'd  there — 

'Twas  a  home  for  the  Bandit  and  Turkish  Corsair. 

11. 

I  pass'd  by  the  city  of  Athens — her  name 

For  learning  stood  first  on  the  bright  rolls  of  fame  ; 

Her  name  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  was  renown'd, 

For  refinement,  and  science,  and  wisdom  profound  ; 

I  pass'd  by  again,  but  low  sunk  in  despair 

Were  her  few  wretched  sons,  for  the  Turkman  rul'd  there  ;* 

Decay'd  were  her  palaces,  temples  and  walls, 

And  deserted  and  lonely  her  once  learned  halls, 

Where  Socrates,  Plato,  and  Solon  once  taught 

Their  doctrines  and  laws,  with  morality  fraught : 

Where  admiring  spectators,  in  rapture  had  hung 

On  immortal  Demosthenes'  eloquent  tongue. 

12. 

I  wander'd  one  evening  by  Pompeii  fair, 
And  music — soft  music — and  dancing  were  there  ; 
The  song  and  the  wine-cup  pass'd  merrily  'round, 
And  all  were  in  mirth  and  deep  revelry  drown'd. 
I  pass'd  in  the  morning  where  Pompeii  stood, 
It  had  been  overwhelm'd  by  a  wild  rushing  flood 

*Written  previous  to  the  liberation  of  Greece 


22  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

Of  fire,  liquid  fire,  and  the  red-glowing  waves 
Roll'd  hissing,  high  over  the  revellers'  graves. 
I  awoke,  and  the  East,  with  its  broad  streaks  of  light, 
Had  dispers'd  the  dark  shadows  of  lingering  night ; 
The  roar  of  the  lion,  at  times,  from  afar, 
Might  be  heard,  faintly  borne  on  the  still  desert  air  ; 
Then  farther  and  fainter  appear'd  the  dread  sound, 
Till  a  deep,  deathlike,  stillness  at  length  reign'd  around. 
I  arose,  and  my  spirit  broke  forth  into  pray'r 
And  thanksgiving,  to  Him  who  in  deserts  can  spare  ; 
Then  onward  I  journey'd,  new  dangers  to  share, 
New  toils  to  encounter — new  hardships  to  bear. 
« 

V. 

I  have  stood  on  the  heights  of  the  Himmaleh  mountains, 
And  view'd  foaming  'round  me  its  wild-gushing  fountains, 
Its  black  rugged  rocks  through  the  clouds  skyward  tow'ring, 
With  o'erhanging  shelves  in  eternal  mists  low'ring  ; 
Its  cataracts  whirling,  and  leaping  and  tumbling, 
In  deep  awful  chasms,  and  caverns  hoarse  rumbling ; 
Like  a  white  wreath  of  foam  thro'  the  mist  I  could  see 
The  source  of  the  Jumna,  near  high  Gungotree, 
While  far,  far  below  me  red  lightnings  were  flashing, 
And  riven  rocks  falling  were  fearfully  crashing. 
Dark  clouds  roll'd  below  me — below  me  the  roaring 
And  rattling  of  thunders  I  heard,  and  the  pouring 
Of  waters  that  delug'd  a  wide  fertile  plain 
Of  Hindostan,  where  Brumha  and  Juggernaut  reign  ; 
Where  the  ignorant  Hindoo  is  taught  to  revere 
As  holy,  their  Bramin  and  simple  Fakeer  ; 
Where  dark  superstition's  tyrannical  sway 
Shuts  out  the  mild  Gospel's  enlightening  ray. 
Oh  !  e'er  may  the  sons  of  Columbia  be 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  23 

From  ignorance,  slavery  and  bigotry  free — 

In  Freedom  and  Peace  may  they  till  their  own  soil, 

And  may  happiness  be  the  reward  of  their  toil ! 

VI. 

I  have  heard  the  loud  groan  of  volcanoes  in  wonder, 

Far  bellowing  'round  like  the  deep  voice  of  thunder  ; 

Their  flame  I  have  seen  from  afar,  clear  and  bright, 

Shooting  fitfully  up  thro'  the  darkness  of  night  ; 

I  have  seen  the  red  lava  with  fervent  heat  glowing 

Intensely — o'er  hamlets  and  villages  flowing, 

And  orange-groves,  vineyards  and  gardens  all  blooming, 

In  its  fiery  career  overwhelming,  consuming. 

Beneath  me  the  earth  has  been  fearfully  shaken, 

As  with  the  loud  trump  that  the  dead  shall  awaken  ; 

Huge  caverns  yaw.n'd  horrid  ;  thro'  Heaven's  profound 

The  voice  of  an  earthquake  roll'd  echoing  'round. 

I  have  seen  the  huge  Avalanche  rushing  in  might, 

And  go  thundering  down  from  the  mountain's  cold  height ; 

A  shriek  pierc'd  the  skies  from  the  hamlets  below, 

And  the  once  blooming  valley  was  "  smooth'd  up  with  snow." 

I  have  roam'd  on  the  mountain-top — roam'd  on  the  plain, 

And  been  toss'd  on  the  "  foaming  and  treacherous  main  ;" 

I  have  roam'd  the  bleak  wilds  of  perpetual  frost, 

And  on  Africa's  hot  sandy  deserts  been  lost ; 

I  have  view'd  in  lone  forests  sublime  Nature's  plan, 

And  in  cities  beheld  the  vain  splendor  of  man  ; 

The  most  beautiful  landscapes  and  vales  I  have  view'd, 

And  the  wild  scenes  of  Nature  in  lone  solitude. 

I  am  weary  of  wand'ring — with  sorrow  oppress'd, 

And  care,  I  will  seek  out  some  sweet  place  of  rest, 

Where,  free  from  this  cold  world  of  envy  and  strife3 


24  POEMS    BY    J,    S.    FRELIGH. 

I  can  pass  the  last  days  of  my  care-woven  life 

In  rural  retirement — content  to  adore 

The  Great  Author  of  Nature,  and  wander  no  more. 


THE    BANDIT    CHIEF. 


I. 

With  shepherds  on  the  hills  of  Spain, 

In  early  life  I  rov'd  ; 
Free  from  the  mind's  deep,  sick'ning  pain, 

Around  ni3  all  I  lov'd  : 
Nor  blighted  hope,  nor  hope  deferr'd, 
Nor  grief  nor  care  my  spirit  stirr'd  ; 
But  cheerful,  innocent,  and  free 
From  the  iron  grasp  of  poverty, 
I  pass'd  my  time  most  thoughtlessly. 
The  future,  look'd  as  sweetly  bright, 
As  the  moon  and  stars  of  a  cloudless  night ; 
And  when  I  saw  some  spirit  bow'd, 
In  the  shadow  of  misfortune's  cloud, 
I  never  thought  that  I  should  be 
Expos'd  to  the  darts  of  misery  ; 
I  never  thought  my  ruling  fate, 
Would  e'er  make  me  so  desolate  ; 
Would  e'er  my  brightest  hopes  deceive, 
My  dearest,  holiest  feelings  grieve. 

II. 

My  childhood's  home  !  my  childhood's  home  ! 

Rememberd  forms  around  me  come, 

All  dress'd  in  smiles,  from  my  childhood's  home  ; 


POEMS    BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  25 

Till  truth  breaks  in  on  my  revery, 

And  fancy  gives  place  to  reality. 

My  woes  the  bitter  truth  recall, 

Like  the  drawing  aside  of  a  funeral  pall ; 

When  a  happy  home,  and  smiling  face, 

To  the  ghastly  image  of  death  give  place. 

III. 

Upon  a  high  and  pleasant  spot, 

Stood  the  low  white  walls  of  my  Father's  cot ; 

Far  off,  an  abbey's  lofty  towers, 

Groves,  vineyards,  gardens  bright  with  flow'rs  ; 

Hamlets,  and  villages  half  seen 

Thro'  smoky  light,  and  foliage  green, 

In  front,  a  sparkling  fount  was  gushing  ; 

Past  it,  a  mountain  stream  went  rushing, 

And  far  below,  join'd  a  bright  river, 

The  slow-meandering  Guadelquivier. 

Far  to  the  south,  the  sloping  hills, 

Whence  rush'd  a  hundred  glittering  rills, 

That  in  the  gentle  moonlight  seem'd 

Like  silver  threads,  so  bright  they  gleam'd. 

The  shepherd's  pipe,  and  hunter's  horn, 

Has  wak'd  me  oft  at  early  morn, 

While  from  the  vallies,  far  around, 

Rose  many  an  herd-bell's  tinkling  sound. 

At  eve,  in  the  villa's  cool  arcades, 

Was  heard  the  songs  of  the  Spanish  maids  ; 

When  beam'd  the  first  pale,  trembling  star, 

And  the  vesper  bells  were  ringing  ; 
Was  heard  my  sister's  light  guitar, 

And  my  mother  sweetly  singing  ; 
And  ofcen  still  in  my  feverish  slumbers, 


26  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

I  can  hear  those  sweetly-lingering  numbers  ; 

Can  see  that  sister  all  bright  and  fair, 

With  her  rose-like  cheek  and  raven  hair, 

Her  smile  of  innocence  and  peace, 

And  tenderness,  sweet  Eloise  ! 

Again  I  hear  the  same  birds  sing, 

Can  see  the  same  flow'rs  blossoming, 

The  wild  rose  and  the  lily  pale 

Seem  waving  in  the  same  green  vale, 

Where  oft  in  long-gone  hours  of  peace, 

I  wander'd  with  sweet  Eloise. 

And  bees  are  humming  around  the  rose, 

The  honey-suckle,  and  fruit-tree  blows  ; 

And  flocks  and  herds,  far  off,  are  seen, 

On  the  same  sloping  hill-side  green, 

Where  oft  in  long-gone  hours  of  peace, 

I  wander'd  with  sweet  Eloise. 

I  can  see  the  same  young  Spanish  girls, 

With  their  soft  dark  eyes,  and  clustering  curls, 

Shaded  by  vines  from  the  scorching  beams, 

Braiding  love-garlands  by  silver  streams  ; 

Where  oft  in  long-gone  hours  of  peace, 

I  wander'd  with  sweet  Eloise. 

IV. 

Oh  !  God,  the  contrast !  since  that  time, 

What  woes  have  fill'd  my  manhood's  prime. 

Thro'  fifteen  years  of  bitter  strife, 

I  wasted  my  health,  and  risk'd  my  life, 

Exerted  all  my  pow'rs  in  vain, 

And  every  method  tried,  to  gain 

A  competence,  one  friendly  face, 

A  home,  and  quiet  resting  place, 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  27 

Remote  from  the  vain  parade  of  pride, 
And  pomp  of  cities  ; — but  Fate  denied. 
Where  others  rose  by  fortune,  I 
Beyond  repair,  sunk  hopelessly  : 
And  dearest  friend,  and  bitterest  foe, 
To  fame  and  fortune  on  did  go, 
Whilst  I,  beneath  some  luckless  star, 
In  all  things  fail'd  : — there  seem'd  a  bar 
To  all  my  dearest  hopes  : — a  spell, 
Stern,  black  and  uncontrollable. 

V. 

I  never  sigh'd  in  courts  to  shine, 

State  dignities  I  could  resign  ; 

I  never  wish'd  to  wear  in  war, 

The  laurel-wreath  of  the  conqueror  ; 

But  all  my  thirsting  soul  desir'd 

Was  calm  domestic  bliss,  retir'd. 

I  often  wish'd  that  all  might  be 

Exempt  from  galling  misery  ; 

That  all  around,  above,  below, 

Might  never  feel  one  pang  of  woe, 

But  instantly,  somewhere  possess 

Complete,  unending  happiness  : 

I  knew  the  wish  was  idle,  vain, 

But  still  could  not  that  wish  restrain. 

Then  wishes,  pray'rs,  and  heart-felt  burnings 

Turn'd  to  unutterable  yearnings. 

VI. 

Homeless  and  friendless,  I  would  cling 
To  the  smallest  and  most  trifling  thing  ; 
The  smallest  hope,  the  faintest  ray, 


28  POEMS    BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

'Till  all  of  light  had  pass'd  away, 

And  all  was  dark — nay,  black,  within, 

As  the  light  of  hope  had  never  been. 

Sometimes  an  independent  feeling 

Burst  through  the  gloom,  new  hopes  revealing, 

And  then  my  spirit  would  come  back, 

Almost  within  its  wonted  track. 

While  thus  reviv'd,  all  but  within 

My  reach,  sweet  happiness  has  been, 

Then  turn'd  to  shades  of  empty  air, 

Or  hope  deferr'd,  or  black  despair. 

I  liv'd  as  one  in  sight  of  bliss, 

Yet  doom'd  to  lasting  wretchedness  ; 

Where  consolation  cannot  come, 

A  constant  state  of  martyrdom  : 

Where  struggling,  gasping,  hourly  dying, 

And  bliss  in  sight,  yet  ever  flying, 

Where  not  to  live,  but  life  endure, 

Is  the  fate  of  the  doom'd  one,  silent,  sure. 

vir. 

Spring  came  and  went,  and  came  again, 
Still,  darkness  press'd  upon  my  brain. 
O  !  had  I  borne  with  sorrow  long, 
Had  borne  ingratitude  and  wrong — 
Had  suffer'd  chains  and  slavery, 
Disease  and  wretched  poverty. 
For  misery  in  every  form 
Strode  in  misfortune's  black'ning  storm, 
And  sped  his  arrows  dipp'd  in  woe, 
Swift,  from  his  ever-bended  bow. 
Deep,  deep  within  the  hidden  springs 
Where  life-blood  flows,  a  thousand  stings 


POEMS    BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH.  29 

Seem'd  hourly  darting  ;  with  the  smart 
Quiver'd  my  aching,  bleeding  heart. 
My  tortur'd  mind  had  oft  been  rack'd, 
Until  the  straining  heart-strings  crack'd  ; 
And  deep  within  the  festering  core 
Rankled  the  bitterness. — No  more  ! 

VIII, 

I  often  tried  my  woes  to  tell, 
But  they  were  indescribable  ; 
To  all  the  tale  did  seem  to  be 
Incomprehensibility  ; 
For  language  never  could  portray 
My  feelings,  or  one  thought  convey, 
That  so  consum'd  me  day  by  day  : 
And  yet  I  liv'd, — liv'd  on  to  see 
My  brightest  hopes  depart  from  me, 
Like  morning  lights,  star  after  star, 
Till  all  were  gone  worth  living  for  ; 
Yet  brought  no  day,  left  naught  behind 
To  cheer  or  light  my  darken'd  mind. 

IX. 

Crush'd  and  in  every  thing  defeated, 
Not  one  design  or  wish  completed  ; 
Friendless,  despairing,  not  a  ray 
To  light  me  on  life's  troubled  way  ; 
And  in  the  selfish  world  around, 
No  friendly  face,  no  cheering  sound — 
One  dreary  blank,  all  time  and  space, 
And  earth  for  me  no  resting  place, 
No  point — no  hope  whereon  to  cling, 
A  feeling  faint  and  sickening 


30  POEMS    BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

Came  o'er  me  ;  while  in  this  dark  state 

I  wanted  to  annihilate 

My  tortur'd  being.     Could  I  then 

Have  purchas'd  peace  by  years  of  pain, 

The  most  excruciating,  keen, 

Appalling — I  had  happy  been  ; 

It  could  not  be.     I  sought  a  cave 

Where  I  could  hear  the  ocean  rave — 

Where  I  could  see  from  its  frowning  brim, 

Wild  tempests  careering,  all  black  and  grim, 

In  grandeur  sublime,  o'er  the  dark-rolling  sea, 

In  stern  and  terrific  majesty  : 

Uplifting  the  waters,  and  scattering  'round 

The  feathery  foam  of  the  dark  profound, 

Where  the  might  of  winds  roll'd  the  huge  waves  back, 

And  the  waters  yawn'd  wide  in  the  hurricane's  track. 

As  the  elements  warr'd,  their  tumultuous  din 

Could  alone  still  the  tempest  that  rag'd  within  ; 

As  the  storm  approach'd,  their  deepening  howl 

Was  music  and  joy  to  my  tortur'd  soul. 

And  there  I  form'd  a  dark,  deep  plan 

To  become  the  desperate  foe  of  man, 

And  I  succeeded  : — 'twas  the  first 

Success  for  years — success  accurst ! 

Oh  !  why  is  bliss  so  hard  to  gain  ? 

Why  ever  present  care  and  pain  1 

Oh  !  why  so  easy  the  access 

To  evil  and  infinite  wretchedness  1 

But  e'en  success  of  any  kind, 

Seem'd  to  light  up  my  darken'd  mind, 

A  strange,  uncertain  light  gleam'd  there, 

That  seem'd  to  burst  from  black  despair. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  31 

X. 

I  said  I  form'd  a  dark,  deep  plan 

To  become  the  desperate  foe  of  man  : 

Though  reckless  all,  the  life-blood  yet, 

Has  never  my  glittering  sabre  wet ; 

But  freezing  fear  to  the  warm  heart  sent, 

Has  been  my  bloodless  instrument 

To  wrest  the  wealth  from  the  rich — who,  free 

From  the  cares  and  wants  of  poverty, 

Recline  in  the  halls  of  luxury  : 

Unmindful  of  the  means  to  gain 

Their  ends — unfeeling,  selfish,  vain  ; 

Unmindful,  though  their  bark  for  years 

Should  sail  down  time,  through  mourner's  tears  ; 

And  gales  to  waft  them  on,  should  rise 

Prom  death-groans  and  heart-breaking  sighs. 

One  tenth  of  all  I  thus  obtain'd, 

For  my  own  use,  each  week  remain'd ; 

The  rest,  the  wretched  cloth'd  and  fed, 

Impartially  distributed. 

Now  when  I  hear  the  plaintive  wail 

Of  the  widow,  and  trembling  orphan  pale, 

To  give  them  instant,  kind  relief, 

To  heal  their  wounds,  and  soothe  their  grief, 

To  cheer  them  in  a  trying  hour, 

And  place  them  beyond  the  miser's  pow'r, 

And  miseries  from  want  that  flow, 

By  what  I  easy  can  bestow, 

Yields  me  a  momentary  joy, 

A  bliss  almost  without  alloy. 

And  when  at  night  I  go  and  see 

A  happy  contented  family  ; 

In  order,  all  in  their  proper  places. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S,    FRELIGH. 


The  bright  fire  shining  in  their  faces, 

And  then  the  parting  scene  —  when  going, 

The  low  deep  sighs  from  hearts  o'erflowing, 

Each  holding  out  some  little  token, 

The  wishes,  pray'rs  by  sobs  half  broken, 

The  thanks  to  which  I  cannot  listen, 

A  glance  at  soft  dark  eyes  that  glisten 

With  pure  and  holy  gratitude, 

My  childhood's  innocence  seems  renew'd  : 

And  but  for  memory,  would  be 

In  the  highest  state  of  felicity, 

I  part  with  a  not  unpleasant  pain, 

And  rush  to  my  cavern'd  home  again, 

XL 

But  thou  wert  young,  and  rememberest  not 

The  parting  by  the  dim  old  grot. 

This  ring,  an  undeserv'd  reward, 

Is  from  the  lady  Ermengarde. 

Thy  widow'd  mother.     This  bright  toy, 

Thou  gavest  me  when  a  smiling  boy, 

And  this  dark  ringlet,  once  did  twine 

Around  the  neck  of  Madeline. 

Then  both  were  innocent  and  young, 

And  wept  at  parting,  and  'round  me  clung. 

Go,  tell  thy  king  of  haughty  mien, 

Victor  de  Leon,  thou  hast  seen, 

That  Bandit  stern,  that  reckless  man, 

Hunted,  pursued,  and  under  ban. 

The  knight  who  will  that  outlaw  bring 

A  prisoner  before  the  king. 

Wealth  will  reward,  and  titled  pow'r, 

And  the  hand  of  the  princess  Elinore. 


POEMS   BY      J.   S.    FRELIGH.  33 

Go  all  unharm'd,  present  the  king, 

This  silver  cross  and  diamond  ring, 

He  will  know  the  pledge  he  gave  to  one 

Who  sav'd  the  life  of  his  gallant  son, 

When  hardly  press'd  by  the  Moorish  bands, 

In  the  loneliest  part  of  the  desert  sands. 

Farewell — I  now  go  forth  to  free 

From  the  grasp  of  inhumanity, 

A  friendless  orphan  ;  and  for  her 

Will  strip  the  fell  extortioner  : 

But  alone,  unarm'd,  on  yonder  height, 

I  will  stand  in  to-morrow  noon's  broad  light — 

Then  reckless  all  I  will  wait  and  see 

The  veil  withdrawn  from  Eternity. 

XII. 

The  bandit  ceas'd  abrupt,  and  turn'd  away 
Into  the  shadows  of  the  forest  grey, 
Resolv'd  to  carry  out  his  latest  plan 

All  unsubdued,  a  dark,  mysterious  man. 
*****  # 

Years  roll'd  away.     De  Leon's  name  no  more 
Was  heard  with  dread  on  Guadelquivier's  shore  ; 
His  gloomy  cave  deserted  by  the  sea, 
Where  midnight  winds  howl'd  in  their  revelry. 
Years  roll'd  away.     A  small  white  cot  arose 
In  a  lone  vale  thro'  which  the  Hudson  flows  ; 
A  white-hair'd  man  at  eve  might  oft  be  seen 
In  that  low  cottage  door  : — out,  on  the  green, 
Beneath  the  elms,  as  children  gambol'd  free, 
That  white-hair'd  man  would  smile  approvingly  : 

He  had  pass'd  in  some  far,  sunny  clime, 

A  life  of  error  and  of  crime  ; 


34  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

From  crime  and  error  he  had  turn'd, 
And  late  in  life  this  lesson  learn'd  : 
That  greatest  blessings  oft  may  be 
Mantled  with  dark  adversity — 
And  like  the  close  of  a  summer  day, 
Was  passing  peacefully  away. 


SELIM. 

IN  the  bright  sunny  climes  of  the  East  is  a  land 
Where  groves  of  tall  flow'r  trees  in  majesty  stand  ; 
Where  the  bright  Bird  of  Paradise  builds  her  high  nest, 
And  is  rock'd  amid  flow'rs  by  the  breeze  of  the  west ; 
In  this  land  is  a  vale,  call'd  the  Vale  of  Delight, 
Where  the  green  fields  look  lovely,  and  smiling  and  bright, 
Where  the  gardens  all  blooming  with  sweet-scented  flow'rs, 
Seem  a  fit  place  to  dwell  for  the  golden- wing'd  hours. 
In  the  fairest  of  these,  the  enchanting  Khaleen, 
And  the  lovely  Selima,  oft  walking  are  seen 
At  eve,  when  the  breath  of  the  sinking  night  breeze, 
Waves  gently  the  flowers  of  blossoming  trees  ; 
When  the  soft  notes  of  music  come  floating  from  far, 
Thro'  the  orange  and  spice-groves,  and  stately  Chenar ; 
When  the  dashing  of  waterfalls,  murm'ring  of  fountains, 
And  the  discordant  bells  of  the  herds  on  the  mountains, 
Are  heard  by  Sultanas  from  their  high  palace  tow'rs, 
And  the  fair  Arab  maid  in  her  green  myrtle  bow'rs. 

JT  was  an  eve  like  this,  when  Selim  came 

From  the  field  of  bloody  toil  and  fame  ; 

To  enjoy  in  the  garden  the  evening  mild, 

And  list  to  the  night-bird's  song  so  wild. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  35 

For  among  the  flow'rs  he  oft  had  stray'd 

By  the  side  of  his  own  dear  Arab  maid. 

But  long  since,  in  a  foreign  land, 

He  heard  she  fell  by  a  rival's  hand  ; 

And  the  thought  o'er  his  soul  shed  a  withering  blight, 

Like  the  quick-destroying  ray  of  light : 

And  now  as  he  gaz'd  on  the  flow'rs  so  bright, 

That  glisten'd  with  the  dew  of  night, 

Two  lovely  maidens  soft  and  fair 

Approach'd  him  with  an  easy  air  ; 
While  on  their  fairy  forms,  he  wond'ring  hung — 
The  eldest  first  drew  nigh,  while  thus  she  sung  : 

Come  hasten  with  me  to  yon  high  palace  tow'rs, 

Where  gold  in  profusion  abounds  ; 
There,  pleasure  and  wealth  shall  forever  be  ours  ; 

Unseemly  for  thee  are  th'  Arabian  bow'rs, 
Where  nothing  but  nature  surrounds. 

There,  in  high  gilded  rooms  maids  in  costly  array, 

With  music  shall  lull  thee  to  rest : 
On  beds  strew'd  with  roses  and  violets  gay, 
Shall  watch  thee  at  night  and  shall  fan  thee  by  day ; 

And  thou  shalt  be  happy  and  blest. 

There,  slaves  shall  attend  thee,  and  tremblingly  wait 

The  command  of  their  Lord  to  obey  : 
In  the  pictur'd  saloon,  or  pavilion  of  state, 
Or  to  guard  thee  in  safety  thro'  yon  lofty  gate ; 
'Mid  warriors  in  martial  array. 

There,  the  goblet  shall  foam  with  the  juice  of  the  vine, 

There,  the  song  and  the  lute  shall  unite  : 
There,  pleasure  and  wealth  shall  forever  be  thine  ; 


36  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

There,  beauty  and  wit  all  their  charms  shall  combine  ; 
To  please  thee,  and  aid  thy  delight. 

Come  hasten  with  me  to  yon  high  palace  tow'r, 
Where  gold  in  profusion  abounds  ; 

There,  pleasure  and  wealth  shall  forever  be  ours  ; 

Unseemly  for  thee  are  th'  Arabian  bow'rs, 

Where  nothing  but  nature  surrounds. 

The  youngest  now  drew  nigh  with  modest  fear, 
While  these  soft  accents  fell  upon  his  ear. 
There's  a  sweet  little  isle  in  the  Indian  sea, 

Where  the  zephyrs  with  flow'rs  are  playing  ; 
Where  the  wild  deer  and  antelope  ramble  free, 

Thro'  the  fragrant  spice-groves  straying. 

There,  far  from  cold  hearts,  in  peace  we'll  rest, 
Where  envy  and  strife  cannot  sever, 

And  we'll  make  us  a  bow'r  'neath  the  ring-dove's  nest- 
And  we'll  never  be  parted — no  never. 

The  flow'rs  are  lovely  and  beautiful  there, 
As  the  flow'rs  of  Eden's  garden  : 

And  our  loves  shall  be  holy,  and  pure  as  the  pray'r 
Of  charity  pleading  for  pardon. 

At  morn  we'll  stray  from  our  bow'r  of  rest, 

To  look  at  the  waves'  wild  motion  : 

Or  to  watch  where  the  sea-gull  builds  her  nest, 
On  some  lonely  cliff  of  the  ocean. 

I  will  walk  by  thy  side  in  the  balmy  grove, 
At  noon  in  the  sunniest  hours : 

Or  we'll  sit  together  and  talk  of  love, 

In  the  myrtle  and  wild-rose  bow'rs. 


POEMS    BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH.  37 

At  eve  we'll  rest  under  blossoming  trees, 

On  a  bank  of  flow'rs  reclining  ; 
Enjoying  the  cool  and  fragrant  breeze, 

While  the  mild  May  moon  is  shining. 

Come,  go  with  me  to  this  isle  of  rest, 

Where  envy  and  strife  cannot  sever, 

And  we'll  make  us  a  bow'r  'neath  the  ring-dove's  nest — 
And  we'll  never  be  parted — no  never. 

Then  Selim — deepest  woe  his  looks  express'd  ; 
As  the  two  list'ning  maids,  he  thus  address'd. 

Oh  !  talk  not  of  love  or  a  place  of  rest, 

To  the  "joyless  and  desolate  hearted," 

For  dark  has  my  life  been,  unhappy,  unblest, 

Since  her  whom  I  lov'd  has  departed. 

Since  she  is  gone,  love's  bright  sunny  hours 

Will  never  again  shine  o'er  me, 
While  darkly  the  cloud  of  adversity  low*rs 

On  the  pathway  of  life  before  me. 

She  mov'd  like  some  lovely  spirit  of  light, 

Or  Houri  among  earth's  daughters, 

And  oh  !  she  was  tender,  gentle,  and  bright 
As  a  Nereid  of  the  waters. 

Together  we've  walk'd  in  a  midsummer's  night, 

When  the  rose  and  the  lily  were  weeping*, 

When  the  moon's  pure  ray  so  gentle  and  bright, 
On  the  violet-beds  was  sleeping. 

And  then  we  talk'd  of  the  spirits  above, 

And  of  bright  days  free  from  sorrow, 

And  we  call'd  on  those  spirits  to  witness  our  love, 
As  we  parted  to  meet  on  the  morrow. 


38  POEMS    BY    J.    S,    FRELIGH. 

How  lone  feels  the  heart,  when  it  thinks  on  the  fall 
Of  joys  that  will  shine  again  never  ; 

How  chill,  when  the  last  dearest  hope,  and  all 
That  it  lov'd  once  has  parted  forever. 

So  talk  not  of  love,  or  a  place  of  rest, 

To  the  "joyless  and  desolate-hearted," 

For  dark  has  my  life  been,  unhappy,  unblest, 
Since  her  whom  I  lov'd  has  departed. 

And  now  the  warrior  stood  amaz'd, 

As  he  in  doubt  and  wonder  gaz'd, 

Upon  their  fairy  forms  so  bright ; 

They  seem'd  like  lovely  spirits  of  light, 

Who  from  the  fields  of  Elysian  fair, 

Had  wing'd  their  course  thro'  the  moonlight  air. 

Now  Khaleen  with  her  wily  art 

Assay'd  to  gain  young  Selim's  heart — 

She  seem'd  so  lovely,  winning,  fair, 

And  mov'd  with  such  a  graceful  air, 

That  as  he  gaz'd  upon  her  charms, 

He  long'd  to  fold  her  in  his  arms. 

Her  voice  was  soft,  while  a  wreathed  smile 

Was  upon  her  red  lips  playing  ; 
She  seem'd  like  a  lovely,  innocent  child, 

Among  the  wild  flow'rs  straying  : 
And  yet  there  was  something  in  that  smile 
That  told  of  treachery  and  guile  ; 
And  something  in  her  restless  eye 
That  spoke  of  art  and  cruelty. 
Unlike  Selima's  mild  blue  eye, 
That  beam'd  like  an  Angel's  of  the  sky, 
Where  love,  all  undisguis'd,  shone  free, 
And  heavenly  truth  and  purity. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  39 

Her  voice  was  sweet  as  "  Peri's  hymn 

Descending  thro'  the  stilly  night,'- 
Or  the  heavenly  tones  of  the  Cherubim, 

That  chant  round  Allah's  throne  of  light. 
So  pure,  so  innocent,  so  sweetly  mild, 
She  seem'd  like  virtue's  lovely,  beauteous  child, 
All  bright  with  blooming  charms  : — when  lo  !  display 'd 
Before  him  stood  his  own  dear  Arab  maid. 
One  moment  he  gaz'd  on  her  Angel  charms, 
And  the  next  he  folded  her  in  his  arms  ; 
And  now  of  his  lovely  Selima  possess'd. 
With  joy  he  retir'd  to  the  isle  of  rest. 


THE    SHIPWRECK. 

'TWAS  on  a  dark  and  stormy  night  a  ship 
Was  dashing  swiftly  through  the  boiling  foam — 
The  sailors  all  were  in  their  hammocks  laid, 
Save  the  watch  only.     He  with  watchful  eye 
Was  walking  to  and  fro  upon  the  deck, 
And  humming  low  some  melancholy  air, 
Beguiling  thus  the  tedious  hours  of  night 
That  heavy  hung  upon  him.     'Till  at  length 
Weary  with  constant  toil  and  watching,  stopp'd — 
Lean'd  o'er  the  deck,  and  in  deep  silence  mua'd. 
No  sound  was  heard  save  that  of  ocean's  roar, 
And  the  continued  pelting  of  the  storm. 
No  clang  of  arms,  as  on  the  day  before 
Was  heard — then,  all  was  strife  and  uproar  wild ; 
The  busy  seamen  running  to  and  fro, 
Obedient  to  the  chieftain's  stern  command, 


40  POEMS    BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

Exerting  every  nerve,  each  to  excel 
The  other  in  the  horrid  work  of  death  : 
The  roll  of  musquetry,  the  clash  of  swords, 
As  in  the  act  of  boarding  man  met  man 
In  mortal  conflict,  and  with  fury  strove, 
And  all  the  thunder  of  the  battle's  storm, 
With  fury  rag'd  around. 

How  chang'd  the  scene  ! 

Some  bound  in  slumber's  chain  wrapp'd  in  bright  dreams  ; 
And  some  perchance  were  musing  on  the  past, 
On  scenes  of  early  childhood,  and  their  homes  ; 
And  "  counting  on  long  years"  of  happiness — 
Anticipation  fond  bringing  to  mind 
The  joyous  welcome,  and  the  smiling  face  ; 
When  safe  return'd  from  sea,  would  meet  their  friends 
Around  the  cheerful  hearth  ;  there  to  relate 
Their  hardships,  toils,  adventures  and  escapes  ; 
Sad  tales  of  shipwreck'd  mariners,  and  all 
The  fearful  dangers  of  a  sailor's  life. 
Thus  mus'd  the  watch  perchance  a  lonely  hour  ; 

When  suddenly  the  storm  came  on  apace, 

And  the  hoarse  roar  of  ocean  louder  grew  ; 

The  black  high-rolling  waves  were  edg'd  with  white. 

The  sea-fowl  screaming,  flew  around  the  ship, 

As  if  to  seek  a  refuge  from  the  storm. 

And  now  the  sailors  all  were  call'd  on  deck ; 

A  youth  was  sent  to  climb  the  tallest  mast, 

When  a  most  mighty  wind  rusli'd  o'er  the  ship, 

And  then  the  tall  majestic  mast  fell  crashing, 

And  with  it  fell  the  youth,  plung'd  in  the  deep, 

And  long  and  doleful  were  his  cries  for  help. 

Alas  !  none  could  be  had,  and  his  faint  cries 

At  length  were  drowned  in  the  ocean's  roar. 


POEMS   EY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  41 

He  was  a  youth  belov'd  of  all  the  crew, 
A  widow's  only  child,  who  oft,  when  young, 
Would  hear  with  rapture  tales  of  the  far  sea, 
And  itching  curiosity  would  prompt 
A  strong  desire  to  visit  foreign  climes — 
Where  th'  orange  blows  and  fragrant  spices  grow, 
Scenting  the  breezy  shores  with  rich  perfume  ; 
And  as  he  older  grew,  his  mind  was  bent 
Upon  a  sailor's  life.     Reluctantly 
His  mother  from  him  parted. — Oh  !  exclaim'd 
The  widow'd  and  heart-broken  parent — Oh, 
My  son,  my  darling  William  !  never  more 
Shall  I  behold  your  face  this  side  the  grave  ; 
Your  father  gone,  and  must  I  lose  you  too  ) 
You  whom  I  hop'd  would  comfort  my  old  age 
And  "  smooth  my  passage  to  the  friendly  tomb." 
My  last,  my  only  joy  must  I  resign  "J 
He  promis'd  her  that  he  would  soon  return, 
After  one  voyage  short,  and  never  more 
Depart  from  her — then  tore  himself  away. 
She  could  not  say  farewell,  but  wav'd  her  hand. 
Then  gaz'd  with  watery  eyes  upon  his  form 
Until  it  pass'd  from  sight ;   and  then  she  mourn'd 
"Until  her  aged  eyes  grew  dim  with  weeping." 
Unhappy  Mother  !  thou  wilt  sorrow  long, 
Wilt  long  indulge  fond  hopes  that  he  doth  live, 
That  he  will  yet  return  to  dry  thy  tears, — 
Wilt  in  thy  slumbers  often  dream  of  him, 
All  fair  and  blooming  as  when  last  beheld  ; 
Then  wake  to  anguish.     Thus  the  tedious  years 
Will  slowly  pass  away,  till  weary,  worn, 
Wilt,  pining  drop  into  the  silent  grave. 
And  now  the  rain  in  one  broad  deluge  pour'd, 


42  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

And  the  wind  blew  in  fury  terrible  ; 

Now  all  were  busy  throwing  overboard 

Into  the  swallowing  waves  their  cumbrous  wealth  ; 

Rich  bales  of  Persian  silk,  and  balm,  and  myrrh, 

And  spices  of  the  East,  and  richest  pearl, 

And  diamonds  bright,  were  all  promiscuous  thrown 

Into  the  deep.     How  vain  were  all  things  now  ! 

Nor  gold,  nor  diamonds  bright,  nor  precious  gems, 

Nor  all  the  riches  of  the  East  had  pow'r 

To  charm.     All  these  were  sunk  to  nothingness, 

Compar'd  with  life,  how  valueless  was  gold  7 

All  would  they  give,  if  safe  restor'd  to  land — 

But,  Ah  !  how  vain  the  thought !  while  'round  the  ship 

The  huge  rough  waves  loud-roaring,  wildly  dash'd 

With  undiminish'd  fury. 

The  crew  now  wearied  with  continual  toil, 

Despairing  stood.     An  awful  silence  reign'd  : 

Sometimes  the  ship  would  mount  to  tow'ring  height, 

Upon  the  topmost  wave  ;  anon,   'twould  plunge 

Into  the  op'ning  gulf  below,  that  seem'd 

A  little  valley — then  a  mighty  wave 

O'er  the  dark  deck  would  rush,  and  then  the  crew 

Would  all  be  drenched  in  the  foaming  brine. 

At  times,  broad  gleams  of  lightning  instant  cast 

A  fearful  glare,  and  brightness  all  around  ; 

Discovering  groups  of  sailors  on  the  deck, 

Pale  with  affright  as  spectres  of  the  tomb  ; 

Again  'twould  all  be  darkness,  and  the  peals 

Of  bellowing  thunder  bursting  OD  the  ear, 

Seem'd  like  to  shiver  the  frail,  laboring  bark  ; 

At  length  the  sound  would  distant  roll  away, 

And  die  upon  the  ear  in  far-off  rumbling  ; 

Alternately,  the  ship  did  seem  to  sail 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  43 

In  sheet  of  flame,  and  rolling  clouds  of  darkness. 

Thus  rag'd  the  storm,  while  onward  dash'd  the  ship, 

Amid  the  roar  of  waters,  till  at  length, 

The  billows  by  their  glare  and  hollow  roar, 

Gave  fearful  warning  of  the  near  approach 

To  rocks,  or  shoals,  or  told  some  island  near, 

Where  fancy  paints  the  cold  and  coral  caves 

Of  ocean — where  the  ghosts  of  mariners 

Whom  the  raging  flood  long  since  hath  swallow'd, 

Hold  nightly  revel ;  and  e'en  now  it  seem'd 

As  if  strange  sounds  were  heard,  and  dismal  groans, 

And  shrieks,  and  horrid  yells,  and  laughter  loud  ; 

And  as  the  ship  dash'd  on  impetuous, 

The  sounds  grew  louder,  thickening  on  the  blast ; 

Then  ghastly  forms  flit  o'er  the  darksome  wave, 

In  whose  white  bony  hands  a  torch  did  blaze, 

Shedding  a  fitful  light,  a  sickly  flame, 

That  chill'd  the  hearts  of  all  with  freezing  fear. 

And  e'en  was  seen  in  fancy  death's  grim  form, 

With  threatening  mien,  on  waves  of  ocean  riding ; 

Just  then  the  ship  was  carried  mountain  high, 

Upon  a  mighty  wave,  and  furious  hurl'd 

Against  a  rock. 

A  shriek  went  up  :  and  then, 
Confusion,  terror,  and  despair,  by  turns, 
Sway'd  uncontroll'd  o'er  the  devoted  crew. 
The  rain  had  ceas'd — the  wind  was  falling  fast : 
The  moon,  at  times,  shone  faintly  thro'  the  clouds, 
Enough  to  show  the  poor  despairing  crew 
Their  dismal  fate.     The  ship  to  pieces  went, 
And  every  one  for  his  own  safety  sought ; 
Some  barrels  seiz'd,  and  some  to  boxes  clung — 
Some  on  a  plank  launch'd  forth  into  the  deep, 


44  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

While  numbers  crowded  in  the  long-boat,  left 
The  sinking  ship,  yet,  scarcely  from  it  clear, 
When  foaming,  roaring  on,  a  giant  wave 
RolPd  over  boat  and  men,  and  onward  dash'd. 
A  father  here,  to  save  a  much  lov'd  son, 
Was  clinging  to  some  fragment  of  the  ship, 
With  death-like  grasp,  one  arm  around  his  child : 
While  there,  two  brothers  floating  on  a  plank, 
Lock'd  in  each  other's  arms,  and  gazing  wild 
Upon  the  waste  of  waters  heaving  round. 
A  short  time  then  elaps'd,  when  all  had  sunk, 
Save  one — and  only  he,  of  all  the  crew 
Was  snatch'd  from  fate  to  tell  the  dreadful  tale. 
Now  where  the  boat  had  sunk,  the  mountain  wave 
Was  wreathing  high,  in  wild  disorder  foaming ; 
But  after  midnight  hour  'twas  sunk  in  sleep, 
And  the  deep,  sullen  moan  of  winds  that  breath'd 
Thro'  the  wild  crags,  and  rocks,  and  cavern'd  shore, 
(Howling  a  mournful  requiem  for  the  dead, 
Who  'neath  cold  ocean's  briny  pall  lay  sleeping,) 
Had  also  ceas'd.     The  moon  and  stars  shone  bright, 
Casting  a  silvery  lustre  on  the  deep, 
That  now  in  silence  o'er  the  sleeping  roll'd. 
'Twas  like  the  silence  of  a  deep  smooth  stream, 
That  in  the  stilly  night  steals  softly  on. 


A    VISION. 

I. 

I  saw  a  land  of  far-extended  woods, 

Of  roaring  cataracts,  and  foaming  floods, 

Where  mighty  rivers  roll'd  their  tribute  free, 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH-  45 

Thro'  gloomy  forests  to  the  open  sea. 

On  hoary  mountains  the  pale  moonlight  stream'd- — 

Vast,  sea-like  lakes  in  lonely  grandeur  gleam'd — 

Wrapp'd  in  deep  gloom  and  silence  lay  the  isles 

Of  those  still  lakes  amid  the  forest  wilds, 

Remote  from  noise  and  strife.     There,  reach'd  no  cry 

From  thy  pale  victims,  Inhumanity. 

There,  Innocence  might  tranquilly  repose 

Secure  from  calumny  or  subtle  foes ; 

There,  Liberty  might  smiling  Peace  embrace, 

And  Sabbath  mornings  find  a  holy  resting  place. 

It  was  the  Indian-hunter's  land,  and  free 

As  the  wild  winds  that  sweep  the  mighty  sea, 

They  roam'd  its  solitudes,  to  live  content, 

Beneath  their  own  star-spangled  firmament. 

The  woods  and  waters  all  their  wants  supplied, 

Nor  knew  they  aught  of  luxury  beside  ; 

"  Their  trade  was  war,  their  past-time  was  the  chase," 

A  hardy,  brave,  and  hospitable  race. 

Thro'  gloomy  forests  prowl'd  the  grizzly  bear, 

The  wolf's  long  howl  rose  on  the  midnight  air  ; 

I  heard  the  panther's  scream,  and  far  away, 

The  ceaseless  thunder  of  Niagara. 

II. 

'Twas  chang'd.     Another  nation  own'd  the  soil, 
Who  came  from  far,  and  liv'd  by  hardy  toil. 
I  saw  that  nation  in  the  fearful  strife, 
Sternly  contend  for  liberty  and  life  ; 
For  tyrants  long  with  unrelenting  hand, 
Had  wav'd  oppression's  sceptre  o'er  the  land. 
The  horrid  clang  of  arms — the  deep'ning  roar, 
Of  battle,  echoing,  roll'd  from  shore  to  shore. 


46  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

The  nation's  ornament  and  leading-star, 

Blaz'd  WASHINGTON,  conspicuous  afar, 

Outshining  all — the  glancing  of  his  eye 

Was  terrible  as  death  to  tyranny  ; 

But  soft  and  mild  as  Hope  to  the  distress'd  ; 

The  watchful  sentinel  of  men  oppress'd. 

A  laurel  wreath  of  deathless  fame,  was  set 

Upon  the  brows  of  gallant  Lafayette, 

The  champion  of  freedom. — with  acclaim 

They  hail'd  his  liberty-inspiring  name. 

I  saw  great  Hamilton,  commanding,  rise, 

The  fire  of  genius  flashing  from  his  eyes  ; 

At  his  deep  eloquence  the  convict  shook 

And  treason  trembled  at  his  piercing  look. 

I  saw  from  far,  a  mighty  Genius*  stand 

'Mid  rattling  thunder-storms,  that  shook  the  land  ; 

He  spake,  the  elements  his  voice  obey'd, 

And  lightnings  'round  him  innocently  play'd. 

III. 

'Twas  chang'd. — The  long  and  fearful  strife  was  past, 

And  peace  return'd,  and  freedom  reign 'd  at  last. 

The  scatter'd  remnants  of  the  hunter's  race, 

Had  weary  sought,  but  found  no  resting-place  ; 

A  hapless  people,  wanderers  far  away, 

In  prairies  lone,  or  forest-wilds  that  lay 

Beyond  where  Mississippi's  waters  flow 

On  to  the  stormy  Gulf  of  Mexico  : 

They  soon  will  pass,  (no  friendly  arm  to  save,) 

Dejected  and  despairing  to  the  grave. 

Where  once  majestic  forests  darkly  frown'd, 

In  gloom  and  silence  awfully  profound, 

*  FRAKKLIN, 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  47 

There  busy  cities,  fields  of  waving  grain, 

And  sunny  meadows  varied  o'er  the  plain — 

Where  once  the  thorn  and  tangled  brier  grew, 

Orchards  and  blooming  gardens  rose  to  view  : 

Where  howling  wolves  once  roam'd  the  forest  free, 

There  bleating  flocks  were  grazing  peacefully  ; 

Where  once  the  brindled  panther  watch'd  his  prey, 

A  gentle-breathing  infant,  sleeping  lay  ; 

Where  sang  at  eve  the  dark-hair'd  Indian  maid, 

There,  the  pale  lover  rais'd  the  serenade  ; 

Where  once  the  light  canoe  danc'd  o'er  the  tide, 

I  saw  large  ships  majestically  ride  ; 

Where  curl'd  the  smoke  from  the  bright  council-fire, 

There  rose  to  view  a  church's  taper  spire  ; 

Where  tall,  grim  warriors  once  their  war-dance  held, 

The  social  circle  every  care  dispell'd ; 

Where  once  the  thrilling  war-whoop  echo'd  'round, 

Was  slowly  borne  a  church-bell's  lingering  sound  ; 

Where  once  dark  forms  in  deadly  strife  were  seen, 

There  merry  school-boys  sported  on  the  green  ; 

Where  once  the  victor  chief  in  vengeful  wrath, 

Pursued  his  foe  along  the  tangled  path, 

And  thro'  the  glade,  and  by  the  winding  stream, 

The  plough-boy,  whistling,  drove  his  patient  team  : 

Where  curl'd  the  flame  around  the  victim's  head, 

The  quiet  hearth  a  cheerful  light  did  shed. 

And  sages  met  in  council,  to  debate 

The  growing  interests  of  a  mighty  state, 

Where  gathering  crowds  with  admiration  hung 

On  the  smooth  eloquence  of  WEBSTER'S  tongue : 

Or  sat,  enraptur'd  at  the  bright  display, 

From  all-persuasive,  Ciceronian  CLAY. 

I  saw  upon  the  glittering  rolls  of  fame, 


48  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

An  IRVING'S,  CHANNING'S.  and  a  COOPER'S  name  ; 

Apollo  spake — obedient  to  the  call, 

LONGFELLOW,  BRYANT,  HALLECK,  PERCIVAL, 

In  order  came — upon  each  brow  he  plac'd 

A  brilliant  crown,  to  Genius,  Wit  and  Taste  ; 

The  Muses  gave  Renown's  far-glittering  gem, 

And  garlanded  with  flow'rs  each  sparkling  diadem  ; 

They  touch'd  their  harps,  and  from  the  trembling  strings 

Sweet  music  flow'd,  as  when  an  Angel  sings  : 

And  smiling  Peace,  Prosperity,  Content, 

Brighten'd  the  far-off  shores  of  that  vast  CONTINENT. 


THE    BATTLE-FIELD. 

THERE  was  a  gathering  of  men  from  far, 
With  all  the  stirring  pageantry  of  war ; 
As  the  long  ranks  in  order  forming  wheel'd, 
Their  polish'd  arms  flash'd  light'ning  o'er  the  field  ; 
And  steeds,  impatient  for  the  fight,  were  neighing, 
And  plumes  and  banners  in  the  breeze  were  playing. 

The  trumpet  sounded,  and  the  clarions  clear, 
With  wild,  inspiring  music,  banish'd  fear. 
Conspicuous,  on  the  battle-field's  confines, 
The  leaders  dash'd  along  the  glittering  lines, 
With  eagle-glance  reviewing  points  and  stations, 
O'erlooking  stern,  the  gathering  of  nations. 

One  long,  deep  signal  note  was  heard  from  far, 
Then  burst  the  bellowing  thunder-peals  of  war, 
And  squadrons  madly  rush'd  to  combat  dire, 
Thro'  rolling  smoke,  and  cataracts  of  fire. 


POEMS    BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH.  49 

Bright  thro'  the  war-cloud  countless  swords  were  gleaming 
While  life  was  from  a  thousand  bosoms  streaming. 

Again  was  heard  the  trumpet's  thrilling  sound, 

And  mingling  conflict  thicken'd  fast  around  ; 

The  fierce  Dragoon,  all  cas'd  in  armor  bright, 

Plung'd  recklessly  amid  the  thickest  fight, 
O'er  "  helmed  heads  "  laid  low,  his  war-horse  dashing, 
Where  valor  fought,  and  swords  were  fearful  clashing. 

And  ranks  on  ranks  were  swept — the  proudly  great, 
And  humble  soldier  found  one  common  fate  ; 
And  many  a  chief  by  wild  ambition  fir'd, 
And  thirst  of  fame,  "  triumphantly  expir'd," 
No  more  to  hear  the  death-drum's  thrilling  rattle, 
Nor  more  to  shine  in  arms  in  front  of  battle. 

Ceas'd  not  the  work  of  death,  until  the  sun 

Thro'  Heaven's  blue  vault,  his  daily  course  had  run  ; 

Then  shouted  giant  Conquest  drench'd  with  gore, 

And  all  the  battle-field  was  wild  uproar  ; 
Sad  were  the  cries  of  wounded  men,  and  dying, 
And  wild  the  rout  of  vanquished  squadrons  flying. 

The  war  is  o'er — a  Kingdom  ceas'd  to  be, 

Bow'd  to  the  iron  yoke  of  tyranny  ; 

The  war  is  o'er — high  on  his  glittering  car, 

O'er  desolation,  rides  the  conqueror  ; 
•  The  war  is  o'er — yet  on  that  field  are  sleeping, 
Lov'd  ones  for  whom  there  long,  long  shall  be  weeping. 


50  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 


POLAND. 


"  HOPE  for  a  season  bade  the  world  farewell, 

And  Freedom  shriek'd  as  KOSCIUSKO  fell." — CAMPBELL. 


I. 

UNHAPPY  Poland  !  Europe's  tragic  stage, 
Where  champions  in  Freedom's  cause,  engage 
In  doubtful  strife,  contending  to  be  free, 
Throughout  each  dire,  eventful  tragedy  ; 
Where  Patriots,  a  firm  heroic  band, 
Breasting  the  battle-shock,  undaunted  stand, 
Their  country's  proud  oppressor's  to  repel, 
And  nations  coldly  view  the  bleeding  spectacle. 

II. 

Wrong'd,  injur'd  Poland  !  oft  with  sword  and  brand, 
Have  Europe's  marshall'd  hosts  swept  o'er  thy  land  ; 
Before  strode  giant  conquest — pale  dismay — 
And  blood  and  devastation  mark'd  their  way  ; 
Thy  Provinces  rent  piece-meal,  'till  thy  name 
Upon  the  list  of  nations  had  no  claim. 
Then  the  proud  tyrant,  on  his  glittering  car, 
O'er  desolation  wide,  rode  lordly  conqueror. 

III. 

Ill-fated  Warsaw  !  oft  the  vengeful  foe 
Has  laid  thy  palaces  and  temples  low  ; 
The  servile  host,  by  proud  Suwarrow  led — 
To  deeds  of  cruelty  and  havoc  bred — 
Pour'd  thro'  thy  gates,  and  streams  of  blood  ran  free, 
As  thousands  bled  by  cold  barbarity ; 
Then  were  thy  sanctuaries  stain'd  with  gore, 
And  tumult  rag'd  around,  and  horrible  uproar. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  51 

IV. 

Thy  name  and  deeds,  Suwarrow,  down  shall  go, 
Where  the  deep  waters  of  oblivion  flow 
Ceaseless  and  dark — while  Kosciusko's  name, 
Shall  wide  and  far,  be  heralded  by  Fame — 
Shall  be  the  watch-word  in  some  far-off  land, 
To  wrest  the  scourge  from  out  the  Despot's  hand — 
Shall  seize  his  guilty  soul  with  trembling  fears, 
And  shake  his  tottering  throne,  and  thunder  in  his  ears. 

V. 

And  even  now,  destruction's  woe-fraught  wing 
Is  over  Poland  darkly  hovering, 
And  war — stern  war — his  bloody  standard  sets 
'Mid  gleaming  swords  and  bristling  bayonets  ; 
And  combatants,  in  armor  bright  appear 
On  Europe's  blood-stain'd  tragic  theatre  ; 
And  Destiny  hangs  lingering,  to  free, 
Or  bind  the  galling  chains  of  fiend-like  Tyranny. 

VI. 

Oh,  Liberty  !  stand  forth — thy  arm  extend, 
The  rights  of  injur'd  Poland  to  defend, 
And  like  a  cheering  light,  dispel  her  woes, 
But  flash  pale  terrors  'round  on  all  her  foes  ; 
Ride  conquering,  'till  proud  oppression  yields, 
Or  crush'd  beneath  thy  flaming  chariot  wheels. 
There  raise  thy  altar — there,  erect  thy  home — 
Be  Poland's  guardian  genius — her  PALLADIUM. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 


A    RE  VERY. 

TOGETHER  met  the  fearless  and  the  free, 

To  celebrate  a  Nation's  Jubilee. 

The  sunny  fields  with  blooming  flow'rs  were  strew'd, 

And  joyous  rang  a  people's  gratitude  ; 

But  soon  a  pall  of  gloom  spread  o'er  the  scene, 

And  sadness  reign'd  where  laughing  joy  had  been  ; 

Hush'd  were  the  sounds  of  mirth — the  mourner's  wail, 

Low-sounding,  rose  upon  the  fitful  gale. 

Two  honor'd  Sages*  to  their  country  dear, 

That  day  had  clos'd  their  glorious  career. 

As  two  bright  stars  of  dazzling  hosts,  the  van, 

High-rolling  thro'  the  pure  cerulean, 

Their  course  had  been. — Call'd  hence  by  God's  decree, 

To  celebrate  the  day  more  gloriously. 

I  saw  their  disembodied  spirits  rise, 

While  Liberty  lean'd  smiling  from  the  skies — 

Sparkled  the  coruscations,  keenly  bright, 

Of  dazzling  splendor  in  their  paths  of  light : 

Soft  to  my  ears  celestial  music  stole, 

In  streams  of  melody  that  hush'd  my  soul ; 

Far  in  the  Heav'ns  two  points  intensely  bright, 

A  moment  shone,  then  vanish'd  from  my  sight ; 

A  strain  of  music,  jubilant  and  free, 

Burst  from  the  skies — then  ceas'd  the  melody, 

And  I  awoke.     A  far-off  funeral  knell 

Rang  in  my  ears,  and  on  the  breeze  did  swell. 

While  musing,  I  unconsciously  had  stray 'd 

To  the  lone  spot  where  weary  ones  were  laid  \ 

The  full  round  moon  a  silver  lustre  shed 

Upon  the  white,  cold  tomb-stones  of  the  dead ; 

A  "  sere  and  yellow  leaf"  fell  at  my  feet — 

Alas  !  the  time  of  man,  how  passing  fleet ! 

*Adams  and  Jefferson,  who  both  died  on  the  4th  of  July,  1826. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  53 


HAPPINESS. 
I. 

SEEK  for  me  where  innocent  mirth 
Brightens  around  the  domestic  hearth  ; 
Where  sweet  contentment  adds  a  grace 
To  each  fair  and  smiling  face  ; 
Where  entertaining  tales  of  truth 
By  the  aged  are  told  to  the  list'ning  youth  ; 
Where  all  is  joy  and  innocent  glee, 
And  where  all  are  united  in  harmony. 

II. 

I  am  found  with  the  inmates  so  happy  and  free, 
Of  the  cottage  of  busy  industry ; 
Where  the  husband  returns  from  a  distant  shore, 
To  the  home  of  his  fathers,  to  part  no  more  ; 
Where  each  little  one's  innocent,  smiling  face 
Seems  to  welcome  him  home  to  a  resting-place, 
By  the  bright-blazing  fire,  where  each  care  of  his  life 
Is  sooth'd  by  th'  affectionate  smiles  of  his  wife  ; 
How  cheerful,  tho'  weary,  he  sits  down  to  rest 
In  his  own  happy  cottage,  the  place  he  loves  best. 

III. 

I  am  found  with  the  much-expecting  youth, 

In  the  days  of  his  innocence  and  truth — 

Who  never  yet  has  been  deceiv'd 

By  the  cold  world — who  ne'er  has  griev'd 

For  loss  of  friends  by  death  laid  low, 

Or  felt  misfortune's  heavy  blow  ; 

I  wrap  his  soul  in  a  dream  of  bliss, 

That  shall  vanish  ere  long  into  nothingness. 


54  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

IV. 

I  am  found  where  innocent  hearts  are  join'd 

In  pure  and  faithful  love  ; — combin'd 

By  sweet  affection's  holy  tie, 

And  friendship  in  its  purity  ; 

Where  only  to  live  for  each  other,  is  worth 

All  the  rest  of  the  pleasures  and  joy  of  earth. 

Oh  !  what  sweet  thrills  of  pleasure,  what  ecstacy  rolls 

'Round  the  innocent  young  hearts  of  two  kindred  souls  ; 

There  is  nothing  of  earth  with  such  rapture  entwin'd, 

As  the  first  hour  of  love  when  two  fond  hearts  are  join'd. 

V. 

Where  love,  and  peace,  and  health  abound, 

And  calm  content,  there,  I  am  found  ; 

I  am  found  with  the  child  of  God — and  where 

The  pure  heart  swells  high  with  devotion  and  pray'r  ; 

Wherever  fair  virtue  holds  her  sway, 

I  shed  a  pure,  a  heavenly  ray — 

And  there  always  is  a  home  for  me 

In  the  land  of  FREEDOM  and  LIBERTY. 


MISERY. 

I. 

SEEK  for  me  in  the  vaulted  cell, 
Where  tyranny,  fiend-like,  wreathes  his  spell, 
Where  the  heavy  walls  are  cold  and  damp, 
Where  dimly  burns  the  mouldy  lamp, 
Where  the  wretch  for  liberty  sighs  in  vain, 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  55 

There  I  love  to  hear  the  clank  of  his  chain. 

And  when  the  wind  round  the  rugged  walls  moan, 

I  love  to  hear  the  prisoner's  groan  : 

Then  I  mutter  darkly  in  his  ear, 

A  bitter  tale  for  the  coming  year. 

II. 

I  am  found  where  children  starving  lie, 

In  the  cottage  of  ghastly  poverty  ; 

How  I  love  to  hear  the  mother's  wail, 

As  she  breaks  the  last  crust  for  her  children  pale  ; 

When  her  husband  returns  at  the  midnight  hour, 

With  a  ruin'd  soul,  and  a  madman's  pow'r 

From  the  Gambler's  hell,  or  the  Drunkard's  den — 

Or  the  lowest  haunts  of  degraded  men. 

III. 

I  am  found  with  the  youth  who  is  roughly  toss'd 

On  adversity's  sea,  whose  friends  are  lost, 

Whose  dearest  hopes  are  all  laid  low. 

Whose  life  is  one  sad  tale  of  woe  ; 

Who  feels,  when  downward  from  happiness  hurPd, 

The  taunts  of  the  cold  unfeeling  world  ; 

I  am  with  him  in  his  bitterest  hour, 

To  shed  round  his  heart  my  withering  pow'r. 

IV. 

Seek  for  me  in  the  cot  of  the  maid, 

Who  has  been  by  the  villain  false,  betray'd  ; 

When  she's  bitterly  musing,  deep  sunk  in  grief, 

I  love  to  withhold  every  kind  relief : 

And  when  madly  raving  in  wild  despair, 

She  tears  the  locks  of  her  sunny  hair ; 


56  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

How  I  love  to  twine  round  her  breaking  heart, 
Ere  the  life-blood  is  forc'd  from  its  fount  to  depart. 

V. 

Seek  for  me  where  jealousy  reigns, 

That  drinks  the  blood  from  the  heart's  warm  veins  : 

I  am  found  with  vice  in  every  clime, 

And  follow  the  track  of  revenge  and  crime  ; 

I  am  found  with  the  toil-worn,  wretched  slave, 

And  I  hasten  his  journey  to  the  grave  ; 

Oh  !  I  love  to  twine  round  a  grief  stricken  heart, 

Ere  the  life  blood  is  forc'd  from  its  fount  to  depart. 

And  there  always  is  a  home  for  me, 

In  the  land  of  OPPRESSION  and  SLAVERY. 


THE    STORM. 

THE  afternoon  was  sultry,  in  the  west 
A  dark  cloud  rested,  and  from  whence  at  times 
The  lightning  fitful  flash'd — the  distant  sound 
Of  thunder  muttering  low,  the  coming  wind, 
That  thro'  the  forest  pass'd  with  solemn  roar, 
Waving  the  lofty  pines,  bespoke  a  storm. 
At  length  the  cloud,  pile  after  pile  uprose, 
Grimly  terrific,  darkly  penciling 
The  wall  of  Heav'n,  gloomily  shadowing 
Woodland  and  village,  vales,  and  rocks  and  hills, 
And  winding  streams  that  late  in  sunlight  shone  ; 
Till  spreading  fast,  earth  seem'd  as  with  a  pall 
Of  fearful  blackness  curtain'd  all  around. 
Then  swift-descending  fell  the  rattling  hail, 
And  forked  lightnings  darted  down  on  earth, 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  57 

Scathing  the  lofty  pine  or  stubborn  oak, 

And  then  again  they  blaz'd  high  'mid  the  clouds  ; 

The  dark'ning  air  grew  thick  with  tempest : 

The  sweeping  blast,  into  a  whirlwind  grown, 

Uprooted  trees,  or  hurl'd  their  limbs  in  air, 

And  all  the  sky  was  uproar. 

******* 

At  length  the  storm  subsided,  and  the  cloud 

That  hung  o'er  earth  slow-roll'd  away,  and  then 

The  many  color'd  Iris  sweetly  smil'd, 

Her  gorgeous  tints  all  bright,  and  beautiful, 

Commingling,  mellowing,  and  melting  soft, 

Far-stain'd  the  liquid  pure  cerulean  ; 

The  setting  sun's  last  rays  beam'd  on  the  earth, 

And  all  above  wras  calm  and  clear,  except 

A  few  thin  fleecy  clouds,  that  slowly  mov'd 

Their  light  forms  'round  the  azure  vault  of  Heav'n. 

The  Evening  Star  then  pale  and  trembling  shone, 

Scarce  visible,  for  still  the  parted  rays 

Of  Phoebus  ting'd  with  golden  hue  the  clouds  ; 

Star  after  star  appear'd  till  Heaven's  dome 

Seem'd  thick  inlaid  with  brilliants,  sparkling  'round 

The  Queen  of  Night,  thro'  liquid  azure  sailing ; 

Her  face  at  times  veil'd  by  a  golden  cloud, 

As  oft  unveil'd,  and  sweetly  smiling  down, 

Shedding  a  flood  of  glory,  streaming  'round. 

Like  some  lone  traveler  o'er  gentle  hills 

Passing  with  hurried  step,  whose  yellow  locks 

Are  in  the  rude  blast  streaming,  and  whose  form 

The  shadowy  rocks,  or  tufted  foliage 

Of  some  lone  grove  often  obscures  or  hides  : 

So  the  mild  face  of  Cynthia  was  shown. 

Oh  sight  sublime  !  wheu  in  the  dewy  night, 


58  POEMS    BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 


The  glittering  stars  hang  trembling  in  the  blue, 
Serene  of  Heav'n,  'tis  then  the  soul  expands, 
Lifted  above  the  groveling  things  of  earth, 
And  feels,  and  owns  an  All-wise  Deity. 


A   GLANCE   AT    THE    FUTURE. 

THE  veil  remov'd,  that  hides  Eternity, 
Will  show  us  Truth,  eternal,  glorious  truth  ; 
All  things  reveal'd,  explain'd,  that  should  be  known  ; 
Then  friends  will  meet,  all  happy,  ne'er  to  part, 
And  know  each  other,  and  sweet  converse  hold 
Together  'round  the  dazzling  throne  of  God, 
With  the  redeem'd  of  ages — spirits  bright, 
Intelligences — powers  from  other  worlds, 
Angels,  Archangels,  Hierarchs  of  light, 
And  beings  of  high  order  : 

Or  together  range  in  bands, 
Conversing  thro'  the  vales  of  Paradise. 
Perhaps,  allow'd  with  Angel-guides,  to  rove 
From  star  to  star,  and  visit  strange  bright  worlds, 
Fairer  than  Eden,  where  blest  spirits  dwell. 
Thus,  glancing  in  obedience  to  thought, 
From  the  bright,  chrystal  battlements  of  Heav'n, 
Far  in  God's  boundless  empire,  we  may  see 
New  systems,  worlds,  and  beings  without  end. 
Thus,  ever-varying  scenes — scenes  ever  new, 
Of  beauty,  glory,  or  sublimity, 
Thro'  space  interminable  scatter'd  wide, 
Shall  call  forth  gratitude,  and  love,  and  praise, 
Ceaseless  to  God,  to  whom  all  praise  is  due. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  59 

Vast,  boundless,  measureless  Eternity, 
Awful,  sublime,  incomprehensible, 
All-swallowing  : — when  Time  shall  be  engulf'd 
In  thy  profound,  the  just  will  be  in  Heav'n. 
From  lingering  suspense,  and  blighted  hope, 
From  earth's  perplexities,  and  passion's  strife, 
From  care,  and  fear,  and  misery,  and  death, 
And  all  uneasiness  forever  free. 
Increasing  constantly  in  knowledge,  bliss, 
As  fast  as  their  increasing  pow'rs  can  bear 
To  know,  or  to  enjoy,  yet  always  full, 
Always  improving,  blest  continually, 
Forever  !  and  Forever  ! !  and  Forever  ! ! 


WANDERINGS    OF    THOUGHT. 

I  SEE  unrolFd  the  dim  and  shadowy  Past, 

Far  back,  beyond  the  time  when  first  this  orb 

Was  rounded,  or  the  lamps  of  Heav'n  were  hung 

Far  blazing  in  the  boundless  fields  of  space  ; 

The  great  First  Cause  of  all  things,  high  enthron'd 

Between  two  vast  Eternities,  looks  forth, 

And  at  a  glance  the  Past  and  Future  sees, 

Like  two  great  Hemispheres  mapp'd  out  around. 

Thus  always  seen  and  known,  all  things  must  be 

Present  to  him,  "  one  great  eternal  now." 

All  things  must  therefore  be  as  seen  and  known 

By  Him  whose  sovereign  will  alone  is  Fate  ; 

Hence,  nothing  could  be  otherwise  that  is. 

Motives,  and  pow'rs  beyond  our  weak  control, 

Lead  us,  and  govern,  and  compel  to  act 

Each  one  his  part,  throughout  life's  weary  round. 


60  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

God  is  in  all  things,  and  all  things  in  him, 

All  things  are  of,  and  from  him  ;  and  in  space 

No  utter  vacuum  can  ever  be, 

Nor  ever  has  been — nothing  can  destroy 

Or  separate  a  moment  the  Great  One. 

Evil  is  suffer'd  for  the  sake  of  good, 

And  springs  from  imperfection — and  must  end 

Lost  in  progression  infinite  of  Love, 

Our  course  is  onward,  through  progressive  states,- 

Developements  of  deathless  mind,  and  Truth, 

Expanding  Wisdom,  Love,  and  endless  Bliss. 


FAREWELL    TO    TOBACCO. 


Fare  thee  well  and  if  forever, 

Still  forever  Fare  thee  well. — BYRON. 


FAREWELL  to  thee,  Tobacco  !     Now  no  more 
On  sofa,  or  in  arrn-chair  shall  I  muse 
Half-waking,  half-forgetful,  sooth'd  by  thee 
Oh  !  thou  hast  often  prov'd  my  kindly  friend — 
Hast  often  prov'd  a  soothing,  healing  balm 
To  my  wrung,  quivering  bosom. 

Oft  as  the  dense  blue  smoke  would  upward  rise. 

Fantastically  curling  from  my  pipe, 

And  the  rude  wintry  storm  has  howl'd  without, 

On  the  clos'd  shutters  beating,  have  I  sat 

By  some  kind-hearted  Dutchman's  cheerful  hearth, 

While  tales  of  headless  "  spooks  "  and  goblins  dire, 

Beguil'd  the  long  and  tedious  winter  eve. 

By  thee  incited,  oft  has  fancy  play'd 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  61 

Strange  pranks  within  my  brain. 

I  have  descended  swift  as  beams  of  light, 

Down,  down,  far  down,  a  dreary  way,  beneath 

The  dark,  dead  waters  of  a  waveless  sea, 

Where  the  cold  caverns  of  oblivion, 

Dim,  gloomy,  dismal,  vast,  most  horrid  yawn'd 

Silent  as  death  : — I  saw  upon  the  walls, 

The  names  and  deeds  of  many,  who  on  earth 

Heroes  renown'd  were  call'd,  and  sons  of  Fame. 

Huge,  shapeless,  green  ey'd  monsters  seem'd  to  rise 

Far  in  the  sullen  gloom — affrighted,  chill'd, 

On  wings  of  fancy  swiftly  I  return'd. 

Recover'd  by  the  light  and  warmth  of  day, 
Mounted  again,  I  would  pursue  my  course 
Awhile  among  Earth's  kingdom's — I  would  go 
To  far-off  realms,  where  hoary  mountains  lift 
Their  dark  scarr'd  foreheads,  far  above  the  clouds, 
That  tempest-charg'd,  hang  dark'ning  o'er  the  land  : 
Above  where  lightnings  play,  and  thunders  roll 
Whose  peaks  unscath'd  by  elemental  strife, 
Rest  in  eternal  sunshine. 

Then  sudden  starting  from  the  loftiest  height 

Of  the  Himlayan  chain,  I  would  ascend 

Where  planets  roll,  and  meteors  career, 

Where  strange  bright  suns  shoot  far  their  dazzling  rays, 

And  comets  wheel  in  orbs  elliptical, 

Through  boundless  space,  among  the  burning  stars. 

And  on,  and  on,  still  farther,  would  I  rove, 
Thro'  space  interminable,  skyward  wing'd, 
Up,  up,  far  up,  a  long,  long  way  beyond 
The  sage  Astronomer's  profoundest  ken, 
D 


62  POEMS    BY    J.    S.    FREL1GH. 

Where  last  of  light,  the  coruscations  play, 
And  flash,  and  sparkle  on  the  farthest  verge, 
The  edges  bright  of  the  great  Universe. 

Ev'n  farther  still — where  Chaos  and  Dim  Night, 

Forever  reign — where  Horror,  Darkness,  Gloom, 

Loud  uproar,  Discord,  and  Confusion  dire, 

Jarring  commingle,  and  with  fearful  din, 

Unceasing  revel. 

Thus  on,  till  Desolation's  ebon  wing 

O'er  all  came  darkly  sweeping,  shutting  out 

What  lay  beyond,  black'ning  the  prospect  'round.- 

Then  back  to  bustling  earth,  where  I  arriv'd 

As  the  last  wreath  of  smoke  had  disappear'd. 

Tobacco  once  for  all,  I  say  FAREWELL. 


LACY    CASTLE. 

I. 

Midnight  with  all  its  dreams  and  crimes,  has  pass'd, 
And  morning's  earliest  hour  is  hoarse  proclaimed, 
By  some  lone  German  watchman  station'd  near, 
In  broken  English,  drawling  out — "All's  Well." 
Pale  thro'  my  grated  window  comes  the  gleam 
Of  lightning,  fitfully,  the  cold  grey  walls 
In  mockery  brightening,  as  if  to  show 
That  all  is  not  a  dream. — The  far-off  roll 
Of  thunder,  like  an  anthem  fills  the  sky  : 
The  sound  of  rain  comes  faintly  to  my  ear, 
Scarce  heard  within  these  formidable  walls, 
Tho'  all  is  silent  now,  save  the  low  moan 
Of  some  sick  prisoner,  or  horrid  noise 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  63 

Of  half  starv'd  rats,  contending  for  a  bone 
Cast  from  some  wretch's  cell. — "  The  ribald  jest," 
Profanity  and  song  are  heard  no  more, 
All  save  the  sick  one,  seem  to  be  at  rest, 
Dreaming  perchance  of  childhood  and  their  homes. 

II. 

Shut  up  from  all  I  hold  most  dear  on  earth, 

To  gratify  a  petty  tyrant's  will, 

Whose  little  soul  no  generous  spark  e'er  warm'd ; 

A  rank  disgrace  to  the  high  place  he  fills  ; 

The  pliant  engine  of  sectarian  pow'r  ; 

Base  tool  of  cliques,  and  recreant  to  all 

The  high  and  noble  feelings  of  a  man, 

His  hate  has  honor'd  me  more  than  disgrac'd. 

III. 

My  wife  !  my  boy  !  my  pleasant  cottage  home  ! 
Imagination  pictures  to  my  view, 
As  when  I  saw  them  last ; — not  dreaming  then, 
That  tyranny  would  part  us  ev'n  a  day. 
My  boy  at  eve  will  watch  for  me  in  vain, 
And  fail  to  meet  me  at  the  usual  hour ; 
Will  miss  me  when  he  takes  his  little  round, 
To  kiss,  and  say  "  Good  Night."     Be  comforted, 
Hope  whispers  we  shall  shortly  meet  again — 
Till  then  farewell — malice  has  done  its  worst. 


64  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 


THE     DREAM    OF    YOUTH. 


'Twas  ever  thus  from  childhood's  hour 
Ii 


I've  seen  my  fondest  hopes  decay ; 
t  never  lov'd  a  tree  or  flow'r, 
But  'twas  the  first  to  fade  away. — MOORE. 


I  DREAM'D  I  saw  an  isle  of  light 

In  the  wide  blue  waste  before  me, 
And  as  I  gaz'd  a  spirit  bright 

From  the  isle  seem'd  hovering  o'er  me, 
Speaking  in  music  : — "  Yonder  isle 
So  bright,  where  all  things  sweetly  smile, 
Is  the  home  of  Happiness — no  care, 
Nor  grief,  nor  misery  is  there  ; 
No  discord,  envy,  slander,  strife, 
Nor  jealousy,  (torment  of  life,) 
No  faithless  friends  who  warm  to-day, 
To-morrow  coldly  turn  away  ; 
Who  say  you  ne'er  shall  be  forgot — 
But  on  the  morrow  know  you  not. 
There,  the  cold-hearted  ne'er  can  come, 
There,  the  unfeeling  find  no  home, 
There's  no  deceit  or  treachery, 
But  all  is  truth,  integrity, 
And  friendship  warm,  and  faithful  love  ; 
There,  pure  religion  from  above 
Descends,  from  superstition  free, 
All  radiant  with  charity." 
He  said  :  then  thro'  the  yielding  air, 
Departed  for  the  isle  so  fair  ; 
And  then  on  airy  pinions,  light, 
I  follow 'd  the  fair  spirit  bright ; 
But  as  with  swift  unwearied  wing 
I  sail'd,  the  isle  seem'd  vanishing, 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  65 

And  with  it  expectations  high, 
Of  future  happiness  and  joy. 
The  spirit  from  before  my  face 
Soon  pass'd — and  then  an  empty  space 
Appear'd,  where  late  the  sunny  isle 
Of  Happiness  did  sweetly  smile. 
Sad  I  return'd,  and  on  the  shore 
I  stood  where  I  had  stood  before  ; 
And  long  I  gaz'd,  but  ne'er  could  see 
Again  that  isle  of  Purity. 


THE    SEASONS. 

'TWAS  Spring — and  the  birds  all  around  me  were  singing, 
The  meadows  were  drest  in  their  liveliest  green  ; 

The  plough-boy  was  whistling — the  village  bells  ringing, 
How  happy  in  childhood,  I  thought  I  had  been. 

'Twas  Summer — the  sun  in  full  splendor  was  beaming, 
And  bright  shone  the  corn-fields,  and  sweet  smelt  the  hay  ; 

Yet  a  whirlwind  had  pass'd,  and  a  crop  richly  teeming, 
Like  the  hopes  of  our  youth,  had  been  all  swept  away. 

'Twas  Autumn — and  wild  birds  in  flocks  were  fast  flying, 
To  the  bright  sunny  climes  of  the  south,  far  away  ; 

The  flow'rets  and  green  leaves  of  Summer  were  dying, 
All  sadly  reminding  of  manhood's  decay. 

'Twas  Winter — all  lonely  I  stood,  as  hoarse-howling, 
The  winds  of  December  swept  o'er  the  rude  heath  ; 

While  dark-rolling  storm-clouds  above  me  were  scowling, 
Awaking  reflections  on  old  age  and  death. 


66  POEMS   BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH. 


THE    STAFF    OF    LIFE    AND    DEATH. 

I  SAW  a  little  ragged  Boy,  one  stormy  winter's  day, 
Between  the  staff  of  Life  and  Death,  he  struggled  on  his  way  ; 
The  staff  of  Life  was  on  his  left,  (a  loaf  of  purest  white,) 
The  staff  of  Death,  (a  whisky  jug  well  fill'd,)  was  on  his  right ; 
That  loaf  of  bread,  perchance  has  been  the  life-sustaining  pow'r 
Of  some  poor  suffering  family  for  many  a  weary  hour  ; 
Perhaps  the  next  supply  of  bread,  has  been  too  late  to  save 
A  feeble  child,  or  mother,  from  the  all-consuming  grave. 
The  staff  of  Death  thus  oft  is  seen,  beside  the  staff  of  Life, 
Bringing  disgrace  and  poverty,  sickness,  and  woe,  and  strife  ; 
Destroying  all  things  good,  and  fair,  and  bright  among  mankind, 
That  come  within  its  giant  sway — the  Maelstrom  of  the  Mind. 


THE   FAST,   THE.,  PRESENT,  AND  THE  FUTURE. 

THE  Past  regret  not — nor  deplore 

Time's  never-ceasing  flight ; 
Though  journeying  in  darkness  on, 

Or  in  one  broad  path  of  light — 
Though  bright  the  links  of  Memory's  chain, 
Or  stain'd  and  dark — regret  is  vain. 

The  Present  is  our  heritance — 

The  Past  can  ne'er  be  ours, 
And  the  Future  is  deceptive, 

Tho'  enwreath'd  with  Hope's  bright  flow'rs. 
The  Present  is  a  rich  estate, 
All  may  enjoy  and  cultivate. 

The  Future,  veil'd  from  human  sight. 


POEMS    BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  67 

Yet  bright  or  dark  appears, 
To  our  imagination  oft, 

Painted  by  hopes  or  fears. 
The  Past  should  teach  us  to  employ 
The  Present  well,  for  Future  joy. 


THE    CHOICE. 

I. 

ONE  comes  from  the  stormy  fields  of  war, 
Triumphant  on  his  glittering  car  ; 

He  has  thrones  and  kingdoms  won, 
A  crown,  and  what  the  world  calls  fame, 
A  laurel- wreath  and  a  sounding  name, 

By  the  deeds  that  he  has  done. 

II. 

Another  comes  from  a  lowly  cot 

Far  down  the  vale,  in  a  pleasant  spot, 

Where  love  and  peace  reside  ; 
He  has  won  content  and  peace  of  mind, 
For  which  so  many  souls  have  pin'd 

In  misery  and  pride. 

III. 

He  has  conquer'd  self  and  passions  wild, 
And  vice  that  innocence  beguil'd  ; 

Has  sinn'd  and  been  forgiv'n  ; 
Has  won  the  prize  'mid  shining  bands, 
A  mansion  fashion'd  not  with  hands, 

All  glorious  in  Heav'n. 


68  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FEELIGH. 

IV. 

Now  choose  this  day  which  ye  will  serve, 
Oh  !  choose  aright,  and  do  not  swerve, 

Nor  give  the  battle  o'er. 
"  Oh  !  Spirit,  I  have  made  my  choice  !" 
Mortal,  'tis  well — rejoice,  rejoice, 

Henceforth  forever  more. 


THE    HUMAN   HEART, 


But  thou,  nor  they  shall  search  the  thoughts  that  roll 
Deep  in  the  dark  recesses  of  my  soul. — HOMER. 

Heav'ns  Sovereign  saves  all  beings  but  himself, 
That  hideous  sight,  a  naked  human  heart. — YOUNG. 


I. 

THE  heart,  the  heart,  the  human  heart, 
How  would  we  horror-stricken  start, 
Its  cells  thrown  open,  could  we  see 
The  windings  of  iniquity  ; 
The  latent  sins,  the  secret  cares, 
Engrav'd  in  burning  characters  ; 
And  misery's  envenom'd  sting, 
The  life-streams  slowly  poisoning. 

II. 

Oh  !  could  we  see  unmask'd  by  art, 
The  dark  recesses  of  the  heart — 
The  springs  of  guilt,  the  anguish  keen, 
Behind  each  smooth,  art-woven  screen, 
The  passions,  appetites  that  hide 
Behind  the  veil  of  shame  and  pride — 


POEMS    BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH.  69 

What  fearful  deeds  of  crime  would  leap 
From  out  the  he  art- cells,  dark  and  deep. 

III. 

The  eyes  may  seeming  love  impart, 

While  hatred  rankles  in  the  heart ; 

The  tongue  may  seeming  truth  make  known, 

While  falsehood  makes  the  heart  his  throne  ; 

The  lips  may  wear  an  Angel's  smile, 

While  in  the  heart  Satanic  guile  ; 

And  every  feature  may  betoken 

Joy,  though  the  fount  has  long  been  broken. 

IV. 

If  what  we  daily  hear  and  see, 
Of  outrage,  wrong,  hypocrisy, 
Sicken  our  hearts — Oh  !  how  much  more 
Would  we  the  pow'r  of  sin  deplore, 
Could  we  in  every  heart  see  all 
The  consequences  of  "the  fall." 
Oh  !  God  of  Love  !  thy  grace  impart 
And  cleanse  and  purify  my  heart. 


THE    LITTLE   WHITE    COT. 

[The  complete  happiness  of  man  depends  on  his  having  one  fixed  habitation — 01 
wedded  partner  for  life — one  Omnipotent  God  to  worship. — J.  Q.  ADAMS.] 

MY  evening  retreat  for  enjoyment  and  rest, 
My  "  fix'd  habitation,"  and  home  in  the  West, 
Is  the  little  white  cot  near  the  old  Indian  Mound, 
By  the  orchard  and  grove,  with  the  Prairie  around. 


70  POEMS    BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

In  the  vine-shaded  door  stands  the  joy  of  my  life, 
My  boy  and  his  mother — my  own  gentle  wife  ; 
They  are  looking  for  me,  and  are  waiting  the  while, 
To  welcome  me  home  with  a  kiss  and  a  smile. 

In  the  cottage,  the  grove,  on  the  Prairie,  the  Mound, 
One  benevolent  Spirit  is  breathing  around — 
I  am  grateful  and  happy — I  ask  nothing  more, 
While  I  have  one  "  Omnipotent  God  "  to  adore. 


THE    PRISONER. 

MY  soul  is  sick,  I  pine  to  see 

My  cottage-home,  and  liberty.  - 

Without,  the  gentle  breezes  blow, 

And  ever-murmuring  waters  flow, 

And  pleasant  fields,  and  groves  and  bow'rs, 

The  sun,  the  sky,  the  fragrant  flow'rs 

Shed  joy  around,  but  not  to  me — 

These,  these  are  only  for  the  free. 

Within  the  iron  grasp  of  pow'r, 

'Tis  mine  to  suffer  hour  by  hour  ; 

The  long,  long  day — the  sleepless  night. 

Shut  up  from  all  that  can  delight ; 

The  powers  of  body  and  of  mind 

All  languid,  wasting  and  confin'd. 

These,  these  are  wearing  life  away, 

While  hope  deferr'd  from  day  to  day, 

On  my  impatient  spirit  bears 

More  heavy  than  a  thousand  cares. 

My  soul  is  sick,  I  pine  to  see 

My  cottage-home,  and  liberty. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  71 

OCEAN. 
I. 

I  LOVE  to  look  from  the  light-house  tow'rs 

On  the  waves,  in  their  wild  commotion, 
'Till  the  scene  grows  dark,  as  the  night-cloud  low'rs 

On  some  far-off  isle  of  the  Ocean. 
When  the  tempest  moves  in  majestic  might 

O'er  the  sea,  and  the  waves  rise  tow'ring, 
In  fancy  I  see  some  Demon  of  Night, 

On  a  hill  of  storms  darkly  low'ring. 

II. 

I  love  to  stand  on  the  sandy  shore, 

When  the  howling  winds  are  dying, 
And  list  to  the  Ocean's  less'ning  roar, 

And  the  scream  of  sea-birds  flying. 
When  all  is  hush'd — when  the  moonbeams  bright, 

On  hill- top  and  tow'r  are  streaming, 
In  fancy  I  see  some  Spirit  of  Light, 

On  a  throne  of  stars  brightly  beaming. 


NIAGARA. 
I. 

I  STOOD  where  waters  dark  and  wild 

Rush'd  fearfully  along, 
A  deep  ton'd  anthem  pealing  forth — 

An  everlasting  song. 
Upbursting  thro'  the  mist  and  spray, 
And  foam  around  Niagara. 

II. 
Dark  lower'd  the  spirit  of  the  storm, 


72  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

Thro'  mists  and  shadows  dim  ; 
Bright  smil'd  young  Hope,  thro'  glist'ning  tears, 

Thron'd  on  a  rainbow's  rim, 
Above  where  storm-fiends  bivouac'd 
In  clouds,  high  o'er  the  cataract. 

III. 

Ages  have  roll'd  away,  with  all 

Their  deeds  of  guilt  and  crime  ; 
Nations  have  vanish'd  from  the  earth, 

Swept  by  the  wing  of  Time — 
Yet  there  the  waters  ceaseless  pour, 
With  solemn,  deep,  perpetual  roar. 

IV. 

Empires  and  kings  shall  rise  and  fall, 

Volcanoes,  earthquakes  rage, 
And  countless  tragedies  shall  pass 

On  life's  eventful  stage, 

While  thou  shalt  roll  unchang'd,  majestic,  lone — 
Nor  cease  thy  roar  but  with  the  last  trump's  thunder  tone. 


OH!    I   AM   WEARY. 

OH  !  I  am  weary — life's  a  blank — swift  rolling  years  pass  by — 
Before  me  yawns  the  measureless  profound  of  Eternity. 
I  am  as  one  in  prison-vaults,  who  hears  the  cheerful  sing, 
And  starving,  sees  thro'  rusted  bars  the  gay,  free,  banqueting  ; 
Who  when  devour'd  by  burning  thirst,  sees  gushing  fountains 

play, 

And  feels  upon  his  wasted  limbs  the  sprinkling  of  their  spray  ; 
Who  madd'ning  sees  their  waters  pure,  all  sparkling  rise  and  fall, 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  73 

Yet  cannot  reach  their  cooling  brims,  chain'd  to  a  dungeon  wall. 
I've  seen  the  many-color'd  bow  from  faintest  tints  increase, 
'Till  bright  and  beautiful  it  shone,  a  harbinger  of  peace. 
Therefore  I  hope,  in  after  times,  that  brighter  days  will  shine, 
When  I  can  rest  with  some  lov'd  friend,  beneath  my  own  green 

vine. 

Oh  !  may  I  conquer,  tho'  my  path  o'er  passion's  stormy  ridge, 
Be  dreadful  as  Thermopylae,  or  the  pass  of  Lodi's  bridge ; 
And  in  the  vale  of  calm  content,  beneath  serener  skies, 
May  Peace,  and  Health,  and  Competence  yield  me  their  priceless 

prize. 


BE    GRATEFUL. 

BE  grateful  for  what  Heav'n  bestows,  of  light,  and  life,  and  love, 
For  the  beauty  every  where  around,  and  the  glorious  skies  above; 
Be  grateful  for  the  thrilling  joy  in  every  pleasant  sound — 
For  the  burning  eloquence  of  words,  and  the  music  all  around ; 
Be  grateful  for  the  happiness  the  sweet  affections  bring — 
For  countless  blessings  every  hour,  and  for  hope  in  every  thing  ; 
Be  grateful  for  the  wealth  of  mind  that  God  has  giv'n  to  thee — 
Be  grateful  for  the  priceless  gift  of  IMMORTALITY. 


THE    MAN    OF    YEARS. 

I  SAW  a  white-hair'd  man  of  years 
Pass  slowly  down  the  vale  of  tears ; 
He  seem'd  from  earthly  things  estrang'd, 
Like  one  whose  heart  had  long  been  chang'd 
By  grace  divine  : — the  swallowing  grave 
Before  him  yawn'd,  and  none  to  save  ; 
Yet  all  resign'd  he  seem'd  to  be, 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 


Grim  death  approaching  cheerfully  : 

But  ere  he  pass'd  Time's  boundary  wall, 

He  sent  a  warning  voice  to  all : — 

"  Trust  not  the  world,  its  highest  bliss 

Leads  but  to  care  and  wretchedness  ; 

True  happiness  from  Heaven  springs, 

Of  which  we  have  but  shadowings  ; 

Trust  only  in  the  Holy  One, 

And  trusting  say,  <  thy  will  be  done  ;' 

Give  God  the  heart,  and  watch  and  pray  " — 

So  spake  the  man  of  years,  and  slowly  pass'd  away. 


THE  HAPPY   MAN. 

Reason's  whole  pleasure,  all  the  joys  of  sense, 

Lie  in  three  words — Health,  Peace,  and  Competence. — POPE. 

The  good  can  never  be  unfortunate. — GRAINGER. 

PEACE,  Health  and  Competence  together  join'd 
Form  the  bright  wreath  of  earthly  happiness. 
The  man  that  would  be  happy  should  possess 
A  conscience  pure  and  void  of  all  reproach  : 
And  murmuring  regret  for  past  misdeeds, 
And  glaring  misdemeanors  'gainst  the  laws 
Of  God  or  man — domestic  ease  and  bliss, 
Books  and  retirement,  near  the  beautiful, 
Sublime  and  picturesque  of  Nature's  works — 
A  few  choice  friends  with  whom  to  pass  the  hours 
Of  innocent  amusement,  union  sweet, 
And  love  throughout  existing — towards  all, 
Good  will  and  charity — with  all  at  peace. 


TOEMS    BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH.  75 

He  should  be  temperate  in  exercise, 

In  labor,  eating,  drinking,  study,  sleep, 

Amusements,  pleasures,  passions,  everything — 

Prudence  observe  and  regularity — 

A  medium,  avoiding  all  extremes. 

He  should  be  diligent,  industrious, 

And  economical — his  wishes  bring 

Within  his  income — his  convenience,  health.    . 

And  comfort,  should  be  ever  paramount 

To  fashion,  pride,  parade,  or  vanity  ; 

And  owing  none,  should  independent  live  ; 

But  not  without  employment — which  should  be 

With  health  consistent,  useful,  and  his  choice. 

Alternate  labor  and  amusement,  books, 
The  cheerful  converse  of  familiar  friends, 
The  exercises  of  devotion,  love, 
Affection,  friendship,  holy  charity, 
Most  cheerfully  should  occupy  his  time. 
He  should  be  greatly  useful  to  mankind, 
According  to  his  means — his  study  man  ; 
How  to  promote  man's  happiness  his  aim. 

Should  Heav'n  deny  him  health  or  competence, 
Or  aught  of  comfort ;  should  misfortunes  dire 
Beset  him  'round  with  their  attending  ills  ; 
Enduring  patience,  resignation  meek, 
And  ever-smiling  hope,  should  e'er  prevent 
Vain  murmuring,  repining,  or  despair. 
On  all  occasions  he  should  strive  to  be 
Cheerful,  content,  and  with  sincerity 
To  humbly  bow  and  say,  "  thy  will  be  done." 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 


THE    MAN    OF    CHARITY. 

It  is  not  he  who  only  gives 

To  gain  a  sounding  name, 
That  men  may  call  him  liberal, 

And  loud  the  gift  proclaim. 
'Tis  he  who  gives  in  secresy, 

Nor  wants  the  deed  recorded  ; 
Who  by  the  action  tdinks  himself 

Sufficiently  rewarded. 

It  is  not  he  who  when  he  gives 

A  pittance  from  his  gain, 
Accompanies  the  scanty  gift, 

With  taunts  and  cold  disdain. 
'Tis  he  who  freely,  nobly  gives, 

According  to  his  portion  ; 
'Tis  he  who  feelingly  relieves, 

Disdaining  base  extortion. 

Nor  he  who  simply  speaketh  well 

Of  some  vain  brother,  weak, 
Conveys  more  slander  in  a  smile 

Of  doubt,  than  words  can  speak. 
But  he  who  by  the  golden  rule 

Of  Christ,  his  neighbor  judges, 
Who  never  to  a  man  of  worth 

His  well-earn'd  merit  grudges. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 


CHARACTERISTICS. 

To  such  I  render  more  than  mere  respect, 

Whose  actions  show  that  they  respect  themselves. — COWPER. 

I  dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man  ; 
Who  dares  do  more,  is  none. — SHAKSPEARE. 

THE  man  who  dares  not  justly  upright  walk, 
For  fear  of  ridicule  or  "  people's  talk," 
Who  spends  his  time  and  money,  wastes  his  health. 
For  popularity,  or  seeming  wealth, 

•  Respects  the  world. 

The  man  who  never  is  asham'd  to  see, 

At  proper  times,  his  chosen  company, 

Who  scorns  hase  slander,  low  deceit  and  pride. 

Who  never  does  a  sacred  thing  deride, 

Respects  himself. 

The  man  who  scorns  to  do  a  little  thing 
To  please  a  courtier,  or  to  serve  a  king — 
Who  will  not  sanction  wrong  or  vice,  because 
It  may  be  privileg'd  by  human  laws, 
Is  Great. 

The  man  who  is  at  all  times  worthy  trust, 
And  ever  prudent,  temperate  and  just, 
Who  holds  his  worth  and  dignity  too  high 
To  flatter,  fear  the  great,  or  tell  a  lie, 
Is  Noble. 

But  he  who  does  an  enemy  reclaim 
From  vice  to  virtue,  and  an  honest  fame, 
And  who  when  injur'd,  will  forgive,  and  plead 
For  healing  mercy  on  the  evil  deed, 
Is  God-like. 

E 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 


A    GOOD    WIFE. 

ABOVE  all  suspicion, 
Enough  erudition, 
A  sweet  disposition, 

On  Charity  bent. 
In  virtue  bright-shining, 
Her  own  sex  refining, 
At  nothing  repining, 

But  cheerful,  content. 

All  slander  despising, 
Above  envy  rising, 
Sincerity  prizing, 

Above  low  deceit. 
Possessing  humanity, 
Sense  and  urbanity, 
Wit  without  vanity, 

Modest,  discreet. 


A    THOUSAND    MILES    FROM    HOME. 
[Written  on  the  Ohio.] 

A  THOUSAND  miles  from  home  and  all  its  charms ; 
And  each  dark-heaving  wave  that  rolls  beneath 
Increases  still  the  distance  while  I  write. 
Strange  faces  are  around  me — no  kind  voice 
Of  friendship,  with  its  sweet  familiar  tones 
To  greet  my  ear — a  thousand  miles  from  home  ! 
And  days,  and  weeks,  and  months  must  tedious  rolL 
Ere  I  can  meet  the  lov'd  ones  of  my  heart. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  79 

Oft  in  imagination,  I  can  see 

The  dear,  familiar  faces  of  my  friends, 

'Round  the  domestic  hearth — and  there  is  one 

I  often  see  in  dreams,  her  now  I  see 

In  fancy,  seated  in  her  wonted  place, 

A  little  cherub  smiling  in"  her  arms. 

Oh  God  !  may  Guardian  Angels  watch  o'er  them, 

And  in  my  absence  shield  from  every  ill — 

And  oh  !  around  my  distant  home,  extend 

Thy  all-protecting  arm,  and  bless  my  friends — 

And  if  decreed  we  meet  no  more  on  earth, 

May  each  so  live  that  all  shall  meet  in  Heav'n. 


MUSINGS    IN    MY  .  EASY-CHAIR. 

TO  MY  FRIENDS  IN  THE  EAST. 
I. 

When  the  moon  in  her  glory  is  rolling  on  high, 

And  the  stars  are  like  bright  golden  lamps  in  the  sky, 

By  the  door  of  my  cot,  in  the  cool  evening  air, 

I  muse  on  the  past  in  my  easy  arm-chair  : 

Then  far  through  the  shadows  of  memory  gleam 

The  bright  scenes  of  childhood,  like  some  pleasant  dream— 

The  school-house,  the  play-ground,  the  cottage,  the  wood, 

The  garden,  the  old-fashion'd  dial  that  stood 

On  the  moss  cover'd  "  well  curb"  in  fancy  I  see  ; 

And  the  lilac-bush,  poplars,  and  lone  apple-tree, — 

The  same  tinkling  bell  in  the  wood-path  I  hear, 

And  low,  lute-like  voices  fall  sweet  on  my  ear. 

And  faces  familiar,  of  lov'd  ones,  and  true, 

All  vivid  and  life-like  rise  up  to  my  view. 


80  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FKELIGH. 

Then  in  fancy  my  wanderings  past,  I  retrace 
From  the  home  of  my  childhood — the  devious  chase 
After  shadows  thro'  error,  and  folly,  and  care — 
Disappointment  attending  my  steps  every  where. 
O'er  the  ocean  of  memory,  looking  far  back, 
I  can  see  some  bright  island,  or  luminous  track, 
Long  pass'd,  and  with  pleasure  review  every  scene, 
Though  storm-clouds,  and  breakers,  and  wrecks  intervene. 

II. 

While  rambling  in  fancy,  an  hour  to  beguile, 

I  oft  at  "  Mechanicville"  linger  awhile 

'Round  my  old  village-home,  where  the  bright  happy  hours 

I  have  pass'd,  are  remember'd  as  beautiful  flow'rs. 

The  steps  are  ascended — I'm  in  the  old  hall. 

And  William,  and  Charlotte,  and  Mary,  and  all 

Are  around  me.     The  greeting  and  welcoming  o'er 

We  are  seated  and  happy  together  once  more, 

And  time  flies  unnoted,  till  weary  with  talk, 

I  accept  cousin  Mary's  proposal  to  walk. 

'Tis  a  bright  Sabbath  morning,  and  echoing  'round 

I  hear  the  old  church-bell's  deep  lingering  sound  ; 

And  Sabbath-School  children,  with  books  in  their  hands, 

Are  homeward  returning  in  bright  little  bands. 

Slow-moving,  and  quiet,  the  villagers  go 

To  the  different "  meetings"  for  worship  or  show. 

The  rumbling  of  cars  on  the  rail-road  I  hear  ; 

From  a  distant  canal-boat  the  bugle  sounds  clear  ; 

The  river,  the  ferry,  the  island  I  see, 

And  even  the  saw-mill  looks  pleasant  to  me. 

The  factory,  school-house,  and  church  seem  the  same  ; 

The  creek,  the  two  bridges,  each  place  and  each  name, 

In  that  far  little  village,  is  fresh  in  my  mind, 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  81 

With  many  a  pleasing  remembrance  combin'd. 
Little  Louis'  kiss,  and  "  Good  night,  Pa,"  at  last 
Dissolves  the  enrapturing  dream  of  the  past ! 
Again  in  my  cottage  where  dearer  friends  are. 
Discoursing  of  you  'round  my  easy  arm-chair. 


MY    CHILDHOOD'S    HOME— MY    EARLY    FRIENDS. 

MY  childhood's  home  !  my  early  friends  ! 

Though  far,  shall  ever  be 
Remember'd  as  the  brightest  flow'rs, 

And  gems  of  memory. 
The  pleasant  scenes  of  by-gone  days, 

When  life  was  bright  and  new, 
Imagination  oft  presents, 

In  mellow'd  light  to  view  : 
Then  dim  old  woods,  and  silver  streams, 

And  hills  afar  I  see  ; 
And  long-forgotten  tones  awake 

Of  low,  sweet  melody  ; 
And  old  familiar  forms  arise  ; 

The  buried  past  appears, 
With  all  the  pleasing  lights  and  shades, 

From  far,  of  other  years. 
The  well-remember'd  scenes  of  youth 

Again  I  wander  o'er 
In  all  the  gaiety  of  hope, 

With  early  friends  once  more. 
'Tis  but  a  dream  ! — It  matters  not 

Whether  my  bones  shall  rest 


82  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

Beneath  the  waves,  or  whiten  on 
Some  prairie  of  "  the  West ;" 

My  village  home,  my  absent  friends, 
Tho'  far,  till  death  shall  be 

Remember'd  as  the  brightest  flow'rs, 
And  gems  of  memory. 


THE    RAINY   SUNDAY. 

A  RAINY  Sunday  !  dull,  dark  hours, 

With  lingering  delay, 
Move  heavily  on  leaden  wings, 

The  long  and  gloomy  day. 

The  measur'd  ticking  of  the  clock, 
The  wind's  deep  solemn  moan, 

The  pattering  of  the  cold,  cold  rain, 
Wake  feelings  sad  and  lone. 

If  to  beguile  the  tedious  hours, 

I  contemplate  the  past, 
Errors  are  only  brought  to  view, 

Or  scenes  too  bright  to  last. 

Thus  memory  portrays  the  past, 

All  darken'd  by  regret, 
The  present  is  all  clouds  and  gloom, 

But  hope  is  left  me  yet. 

And  is  this  all  ]     No  !  I  have  got 

A  gentle,  loving  wife — 
A  noble  boy — a  happy  home — 
all  the  charms  of  life. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  83 

Then  let  it  rain — there  shall  not  rest 

A  shadow  on  my  brow  ; 
For  I  am  with  my  lov'd  ones  home, 

And  I  am  happy  now. 


A    DOMESTIC  EVENING    SCENE. 

MY  wife  was  reading  the  daily  news, 
While  I  was  making  rhyme  ; 

My  boy  was  turning  the  pictur'd  leaves 
Of  a  book,  to  pass  the  time. 

My  mother  was  reading  an  eastern  print 

With  spectacles  on  nose  ; 
And  my  brother  was  in  the  rocking-chair. 

Taking  an  evening  doze. 

The  tea-kettle  was  singing  on 

The  stove  its  song  of  yore — 
And  the  cricket  chirping  on  the  hearth. 

To  the  sleeper's  heavy  snore. 

And  I  thought  how  grateful  I  ought  to  be 

For  the  blessings  I  enjoy  ; 
In  my  quiet  little  cottage-home. 

With  my  wife  and  darling  boy. 


THE    RESOLVE. 

RESOLV'D  henceforth  a  war  to  wage,  against  the  "  sons  of  strife/' 

The  moral  evils  that  oppose,  the  happiness  of  life ; 

Like  bandits  they  beset  my  path,  and  with  malignant  pow'r, 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

They  watch  to  rob  me  of  my  peace,  each  dark  unguarded  hour. 
The  Appetites  to  win,  employ  all  sweet  seductive  smiles. 
The  Passions  urge  me  various  ways,  by  various  arts  and  wiles, 
And  when  at  some  weak  point  or  hour,  a  victory  they  win, 
They  send  Remorse  to  taunt  me  with  my  weakness  and  my  sin. 
My  spirit,  tho'  unconquer'd,  still  is  not  completely  free ; 
The  star  of  Hope,  tho'  dim,  still  shines  a  cheering  light  to  me. 
Come  every  virtue  to  my  aid,  obey  my  spirit's  call, 
And  guard  the  Empire  of  my  Mind,  it  shall  not  yield  nor  fall. 


TRITE    HAPPINESS. 

WE  have  nothing  to  do  but  be  happy — Oh  !  why 

Will  our  spirits  true  happiness  every  day  fly  1 

And  eagerly  seek  for  it  where  it  is  not, 

Since  it  only  can  centre  in  one  little  spot, 

The  MIND — which  we  make  either  Heaven  or  Hell. 

As  we  do  good  or  evil,  or  live  ill  or  well. 

We  have  nothing  to  do  but  be  happy  therefore, 

And  "  grow  better  and  wiser,"  and  hope  evermore. 


THE    TEMPERANCE    REFORM    OF    1842, 

WAR,  famine,  pestilence  and  crime 
Sweep  darkly  down  the  tide  of  time, 
And  fearful  scenes  of  flood  and  fire, 
Earthquake  and  storm,  disasters  dire, 
In  all  their  varied  forms  appear, 
Dark  shadows  of  the  by-gone  year. 
Full  many  a  heart  lies  cold  and  low, 
Where  the  shining  corals  of  ocean  grow, 


POEMS    BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH.  85 

And  water-lilies  rise  and  fall 
On  Erie's  waves,  a  funeral  pall — 
Above  where  lov'd  ones  calmly  sleep, 
On  the  cold  dark  floor  of  the  stormy  deep  ; 
And  Mississippi's  swallowing  waves 
Roll  darkly  over  wrecks  and  graves  ; 
Amid  the  gloom,  one  picture  bright 
Will  ever  shed  a  glorious  light, 

Far  streaming  'round  the  land  : 
'Tis  where  benevolence  of  late, 
Has  rais'd  the  lost  inebriate, 
From  out  his  low  degraded  state, 

Free  and  erect  to  stand — 
Has  rais'd  the  buried  hopes  of  years, 
And  smil'd  away  sweet  woman's  tears, 
And  freed  the  long-imprison'd  mind, 
In  thick-ribb'd  adamant  confin'd, 

And  roll'd  away  the  gloom 
From  many  a  cottage-hearth  and  door, 
And  where  a  desert  was  before, 

Has  made  an  Eden  bloom. 


TO   MY    WIFE, 
On  presenting  her  a  copy  of  the  Female  Poets  of  America. 

DEAR  Wife,  accept  from  me  this  trifling  token, 
Of  lasting  love,  and  deep,  abiding  trust, 

That  shall  endure  eternally  unbroken, 
Though  the  frail  tenement  return  to  dust. 


86  POEMS    BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH. 


Content  with  "  Heav'n's  best  gift,"  in  thee  possessing, 
There's  no  attraction  from  thy  side  to  roam  ; 

For  thou  hast  been  long  years  the  light  and  blessing, 
That  made  for  me  a  cheerful,  happy  home. 

Should  health  and  competence  be  both  bereft  me, 
And  life's  worst  ills  my  spirit  should  oppress, 

Dearest,  with  thee,  if  thou  wert  only  left  me, 
I  could  not — could  not  be  all  comfortless. 

What  though  our  spirits  here  on  earth  must  sever, 
The  tie  be  broken  and  the  union  cease, 

We  soon  shall  meet  again,  and  be  forever 
United  in  the  Spirit-world  of  peace. 


TO    MY    BOY. 


The  beautiful  Oriental  superstition,  that  each  one  has  a  picture  in  Paradise 
that  grows  bright  or  dark,  as  virtue  or  vice  prevails  over  the  mind,  suggested  the 
following  lines. 


IN  the  azure  pavilions  and  halls  of  the  blest, 

Is  a  picture  for  each  one  below  ; 
From  Vice  come  the  dark-rolling  shadows  that  dim. 

From  Virtue  the  radiant  glow. 

Reflected  from  scenes  in  the  drama  of  life, 
And  chang'd  by  a  thought  or  a  breath, 

Interchanging  and  blending  the  various  hues, 
Till  the  picture  is  finish'd  by  death. 

The  watchers  on  high — the  bright  Angels  of  God 
Can  thus  all  your  actions  discover. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  87 


Though  dark  be  the  picture,  one  penitent  tear 
Can  brighten  the  darkest  all  over. 

Then  wisely  when  prompted  to  action  decide 
Whether  govern'd  by  virtue  and  love, 

If  brighter  or  darker  your  picture  shall  be, 
In  the  hall's  of  the  Angels  above. 


NINE    YEARS    AG-O.* 
I. 

NINE  years  ago  at  early  morn 

I  left  the  wild-wood  cot, 
Of  by-gone  happy  days  to  fix 

A  certain  curious  knot ; 
I've  never  wish'd  that  knot  untied, 

Nor  loos'd  the  double  bow, 
That  link'd  two  happy  willing  hearts — 
Nine  years  ago. 

II. 

I  stood  beside  the  form  of  one, 

My  heart's  first  choice  for  life, 
Our  hands  were  join'd — our  vows  were  made. 

She  was  my  wedded  wife  ; 
The  reverend  Priest — the  friendly  guests, 

All  seated  in  a  row, 
I  see  in  fancy  as  they  look'd 

Nine  years  ago. 


*Written  on  the  ninth  anniversary  of  my  marriage,  September  19th,  1845. 


88  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

III. 

The  bridal  party,  and  the  ride, 

Shall  never  be  forgot, 
Nor  uncle  Billy's  pleasant  face, 

Nor  lively,  dear  aunt  Lotte  ; 
Then  naught  occurr'd  to  mar  delight, 

Or  check  the  spirit's  flow, 
I  was  a  happy  married  man, 

Nine  years  ago. 

IV. 

I  little  thought  of  rambling  then, 

To  find  a  place  of  rest, 
Or  that  my  future  home  would  be 

A  cottage  in  "  the  West ;" 
Now  friends  are  far,  and  scatter'd  wide, 

Or  in  the  grave  are  low, 
Who  smiling  wish'd  me  health  and  joy, 
Nine  years  ago. 

V. 

Tho'  I  have  pass'd  thro'  many  scenes 

Of  ever-changing  life, 
My  chief  delight  I  find  at  home, 

With  my  own  gentle  wife  ; 
I  have  enough  of  worldly  goods, 

And  something  to  bestow, 
Nor  once  regret  the  choice  I  made 
Nine  years  ago. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

BY-GONE    DAYS. 

TO  SAMUEL  M'CLEA.RY,  ESQ. 

I. 

DEAR  SAM,  though  far  from  early  scenes, 
And  all  their  heart-felt  joys — 

Though  thirty  years  have  roll'd  away 
Since  you  and  I  were  boys — 

Yet  often  in  my  western  home, 
Beside  a  cheerful  blaze, 

In  fancy  I  am  with  the  friends 

Of  by-gone  days. 

II. 

The  shadows  of  departed  years 
Come  back  at  memory's  call. 

As  silently  and  sweetly  as 
The  dews  of  evening  fall — 

As  throng  the  pleasing  images 
That  memory  displays, 

Enraptur'd,  I  behold  the  scenes 

Of  by-gone  days. 

III. 

Again  I  see  my  early  home, 

I  hear  familiar  names, 
And  you  and  I  are  boys  again, 

And  play  the  same  old  games  ; 
Or  in  the  grassy  lane  to  school, 

With  lingering  delays, 
Beguile  the  long  bright  summer  morn 
Of  by-gone  days. 


90  POEMS    BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

IV. 

And  when  in  after  years  we  met, 

Our  visionary  schemes, 
And  fond  anticipations,  all 

Appear  as  pleasant  dreams. 
Thus  oft  at  eve  to  far-off  scenes, 

Imagination  strays, 
Where  we  have  been  together,  Sam, 
In  by-gone  days. 

V. 

In  visions  of  the  past,  I  trace 
The  forms  of  cherish'd  things, 

And  though  all  bright  and  beautiful, 
They  are  but  shadowings 

Of  long-departed  hopes  and  joys', 
That  fancy  oft  portrays 

In  all  the  rainbow  colorings, 

Of  by-gone  days. 

VI. 

Though  prairies  wide  divide  us,  Sam, 
And  many  a  sweet  wild  scene — 

Though  cities  gleam,  and  mountains  rise, 
And  rivers  roll  between — 

Between  us,  though  on  countless  hills, 
The  early  sun-light  plays, 

Yet  we  can  think,  and  talk  and  write 
Of  by-gone  days. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  91 

SPRING-. 
I. 

THE  Spring,  the  Spring,  the  gay  laughing  Spring, 

All  fragrant,  and  bright,  and  enlivening, 

Has  come  and  thrown  over  the  late  dull  scene, 

A  beautiful  mantle  of  living  green. 

The  gay  humming-bird,  and  the  wild  honey-bee, 

In  blossoming  orchards  are  reveling  free  ; 

And  flocks  and  herds  are  wandering  o'er 

The  fresh  green  pastures  and  hills  once  more. 

Like  beauty  in  tears  are  the  budding  flow'rs, 

Drooping  and  wet  from  the  April  show'rs  ; 

And  melody  sweet  as  we  hear  in  dreams, 

On  the  breezes  wander,  from  birds  and  streams  ; 

And  glad  wild  voices  are  echoing  'round, 

From  hill-side  and  valley,  and  forest-ground. 

II. 

The  voices  of  Spring  ! — the  voices  of  Spring  ! 
So  thrilling  and  sweet  and  enrapturing, 
Recall  in  bright  order  the  golden  wing'd  hours, 
Of  childhood,  as  gay  and  as  transient  as  flow'rs  ; 
And  visions  of  beauty  and  gladness  arise, 
Of  far-away  scenes  under  bright  sunny  skies. 
Though  Spring  smiles  around  me,  let  others  rejoice 
In  the  melody  flowing  from  some  gentle  voice. 
One  smile  is  still  wanting — one  voice  ever  dear. 
No  longer  at  morning  and  evening  I  hear. 
One  link  in  the  family  circle — one  tone 
Is  gone  from  our  midst — I  am  cheerless  and  lone. 
Though  Spring  smiles  around  me,  I  cannot  rejoice, 
'Till  I  listen  again  to  the  absent  one's  voice. 


92  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 


IMMORTALITY. 
I. 

OH  !  say  not  that  mind  is  a  dim  transient  beam, 
And  the  soul's  Immortality  only  a  dream. 
Oh  !  why  was  creation,  if  no  purpose  high, 
Was  intended  for  man,  but  to  suffer  and  die  ? 
And  why  was  implanted  the  knowledge  sublime, 
Of  infinite  space,  and  perpetual  time  1 
Why  gifted  with  reason  a  few  fleeting  hours. 
And  with  restless,  unsatisfied,  far-reaching  powers, 
And  high  aspirations,  which  earth  cannot  hold, 
And  less  than  eternity  cannot  unfold  ; 
If  the  soul  with  a  glance  at  creation,  must  sever 
From  all  that  is  dear,  and  be  nothing  forever  ? 

II. 

The  holy  and  all-seeing  spirit  of  love, 
Is  forever  around  us,  below  and  above — 
Confiding  henceforth  in  that  spirit  to  bless, 
With  wisdom  and  knowledge  and  pure  happiness — 
I  will  trusting  go  forth,  even  down  to  the  grave. 
For  the  spirit  of  love  is  almighty  to  save — 
Believing  that  somewhere  in  infinite  space, 
I  shall  find  an  eternal  and  bright  resting-place, 
Where  the  union  with  lov'd  ones  is  perfect  and  free, 
And  where  nothing  shall  part  my  Louisa  and  me, 
Where  bliss  never  dies  and  where  death  can  come  never. 
And  the  spirit  of  love  reigns  forever  and  ever. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

NEVER    DESPAIR. 
"  Spero  meliora."    "  Nil  Desperandum." 

WHEN  ruin  hangs  grim  o'er  our  passion-toss'd  bark. 
And  the  future  approaches  all  cheerless  and  dark — 
And  the  past  is  o'ershadow'd  by  errors  and  crimes, 
Resolve  still  to  conquer,  and  "hope  better  times/5 

When  vices  allure  us  and  evils  assail, 
And  good  resolutions  repeatedly  fail  ; 
Resolve  still  to  conquer,  and  nobly  declare 
Independence  of  spirit,  and  "  never  despair." 

We  are  acting  our  parts  in  the  scenes  of  a  play, 
Between  two  eternities  passing  away, 
And  the  golden-wing' d  moments  fast  fleeting  shall  tell, 
Down  the  vista  of  time,  if  our  acting  is  well. 

Let  the  Past  be  forgotten — the  Future  unfear'd — 
The  Present  improv'd,  and  our  spirits  be  cheer  d 
By  Hope,  journey  onward,  and  spite  of  the  Past, 
We  shall  "  conquer  our  fate,"  and  be  happy  at  last. 


MERRY   CHRISTMAS. 

TO  MY  FRIENDS  IN  THE  EAST. 

I. 

"  MERRY  CHRISTMAS  !"  let  the  sound 
Pass  from  house  to  house  around, 
'Till  it  reaches  every  feast, 


94  POEMS    BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

Where  a  friend  is,  in  "  the  East ;" 
Spreading  thence  to  every  place, 
Where  is  seen  a  merry  face, 
Where  together  friends  have  met, 
And  where  lovers  linger  yet ; 
Laughing  joy  and  friendly  greetings, 
Little  Christmas  merry  meetings. 
Banish  for  a  time  dull  care, 
"Merry  Christmas"  every  where. 

II. 

Oft  in  fancy  I  can  see 
Some  remember'd  family, 
Seated  'round  the  cheerful  blaze, 
In  parlor  kept  for  holidays. 
Thus  when  visiting  "  the  Springs," 
In  my  wild  imaginings, 
I  am  with  old  friends  once  more, 
Talking,  laughing,  singing  o'er 
Songs  of  other  days,  when  care 
Lightly  on  my  heart  did  bear, 
'Till  from  sober  truth,  a  beam 
Melts  away  the  pleasing  dream. 

III. 

Oh  !  how  happy  I  should  be 
In  the  midst  of  friends  and  glee, 
With  you  Christmas  day  to  dine, 
With  you  as  in  "  auld  lang  syne." 
Though  we  never  more  may  meet, 
Though  I  cannot  have  a  seat 
With  you,  as  in  days  gone  by 
Think  my  spirit  still  is  nigh  : 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  95 

Think  that  I  am  talking  still, 
With  you  in  "  Mechanicville  ;" 
Then  upon  your  ears  shall  fall, 
"  Merry  Christmas  "  to  you  all. 
WRITTEN  FOR  CHRISTMAS,  1843. 


HAPPY    NEW    YEAR. 

TO   THE  SAME. 

I. 

•'•'  HAPPY  NEW  YEAR  !" — let  the  sound 
Pass  the  wide,  wide  earth  around ; 
And  let  joy  roam  far  and  free, 
Hand  in  hand  with  Charity. 
Far  from  early  scenes,  I  send 
Health  to  every  absent  friend  ; 
In  imagination  stray 
Through  a  village  far  away — 
There  my  home  of  other  years, 
As  I  left  it  last  appears, 
With  the  old  familiar  hall, 
Friends,  domestic  hearth  and  all. 

II. 

••'Happy  New  Year  !"— let  the  sound, 
Pass  the  wide,  wide  earth  around  ; 
And  a  heart-felt  pleasure  bring, 
With  each  New  Year  offering. 
Where  a  welcome  feast  for  all, 
Waits  the  New  Year  morning  call — 


96  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 


Where  the  sparkling  wine  is  pour'd, 
'Round  the  hospitable  board — 
Where  long-parted  friends  unite, 
'Round  the  hearth-fire,  blazing  bright- 
There,  let  no  dark-ruling  sway, 
Mar  the  New  Year  holiday. 

III. 

"Happy  New  Year  !" — let  the  sound, 
Pass  the  wide,  wide  earth  around, 
Far  as  language  can  convey 
Joy,  or  "  Happy  New  Year  "  say — 
Greeting  in  far  distant  lands, 
Happy  homes  and  household  bands. 
Let  the  merry  sound  beguile 
Care  and  misery  awhile, 
And  like  early  flow'rs  of  Spring, 
Pleasing  recollections  bring. 
Peace  a  guest  on  earth  remain, 
Universal  gladness  reign. 
WRITTEN  FOR  JANUARY  1st,  1845. 


HOPE. 


Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast, 
Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  blest. — POPE. 

Hope,  of  all  passions,  most  befriends  us  here. — YOUNG- 


I. 

HOPE,  bright  Enchantress  of  the  restless  wing. 
The  ever-smiling  and  all-promising  ; 
Thy  lamp,  the  ignis  fatuus  of  life, 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  97 


Pursued  in  doubt  and  fear,  thro'  toil  and  strife, 
Star-like,  far  streaming  over  life's  dark  sea, 
Alluring  on,  and  on,  perpetually  ; 
Has  shone  in  every  place  where  man  has  trod, 
Toil'd,  suffer'd,  bled  or  died,  or  bow'd  the  knee  to  God. 

II. 

Hope  lights  the  path  of  much-expecting  youth, 
And  all  seem  innocence  and  open  truth  ; 
It  promises  in  some  more  favor' d  state, 
To  make  him  blest— the  Rich  !  the  Wise  !  the  Great ! 
The  future  looks  as  purely,  sweetly  bright, 
As  the  mild  moonbeams  of  a  cloudless  night ; 
But  disappointment  comes,  all  dark  and  chill, 
He  struggles  on  through  life,  and  hope  attends  him  still. 

III. 

It  cheers  the  rich  man  on  his  couch  of  pain, 
And  sweetly  whispers  he  shall  rise  again  ; 
Again  shall  rove  the  fields  in  smiling  Spring, 
When  skies  look  bright,  and  flow'rs  are  blossoming  \ 
Again  shall  wander  in  the  grassy  vale, 
Again  shall  meet  the  morning's  healthful  gale  ; 
And  every  prospect,  every  place  shall  see, 
Where  he  in  glowing  health,  oft  wander'd  thoughtlessly. 

IV. 

Soul-cheering  Hope  !  the  Christian  turns  to  thee 
In  every  trial  of  adversity, 
And  sees  far-off,  amid  the  black'ning  storm, 
His  soul's  Palladium,  the  Savior's  form. 
Devoid  of  fear,  he  waits  the  life  to  come, 
In  persecution,  or  in  martyrdom — 
Trusting  alone  in  God. — Hope  lights  his  way 
Thro'  death's  dim,  shadowy  vale,  to  everlasting  day. 


98  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

V. 

The  patriotic  Statesman,  in  the  hour 
When  foes  invade,  or  rebel  factions  low'r, 
Inspir'd  by  Hope,  rolls  back  corruption's  tide, 
And  combats  envy,  ignorance  and  pride. 
He  counteracts  the  plans  of  dark  intrigue — 
The  midnight  council,  and  the  traitorous  league, 
Fearless  stands  forth  in  Liberty's  defence, 
With  thy  throne-shaking  pow'r,  all-conquering  Eloquence. 

VI. 

The  weary  soldier  at  the  close  of  day, 
Thinks  of  his  little  ones,  far,  far  away  ; 
Long  cherish'd  memories  before  him  bring 
His  childhood's  home  ;  the  willow-shaded  spring, 
The  branching  elms,  the  small  white  cot  he  sees, 
And  the  blue  smoke  slow-curling  thro'  the  trees. 
And  then  Hope  whispers,  when  the  war  shall  cease, 
He  safely  shall  return,  and  end  his  days  in  peace. 

VII. 

Whether  the  sailor  climbs  the  lofty  mast, 
That  reels  and  trembles  in  the  fearful  blast — 
Or  treads  at  midnight  lone  the  cheerless  deck, 
Or  struggling,  clings  to  the  wild  floating  wreck, 
Or  in  his  hammock,  list'ning  ocean's  roar, 
Or  thrown  on  some  inhospitable  shore — 
Still  float  before  him  the  remember'd  forms 
Of  his  far-distant  home — Hope  cheers  the  child  of  storms. 

VIII. 

It  cheers  the  traveler  o'er  burning  sands, 
Thro'  gloomy  forests,  or  in  far-off  lands ; 


POEMS    BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 


Where,  wand'ring  high  o'er  Alpine  wastes  of  snow 
He  hears  the  thundering  Avalanche  below  ; 
Or  by  the  grassy  lake,  or  winding  stream, 
Or  where  at  morn  he  hears  the  sea-bird's  scream. 
Or  by  the  Pyramids,  or  some  lone  tomb, 
Or  ruin  dimly  seen  thro'  twilight's  deep'ning  gloom. 

IX. 

Enter  the  cold  damp  cells  where  misery  reigns, 
And  listen  to  the  heavy  clank  of  chains  ; 
At  midnight  hear  the  deep,  heart-rending  groan, 
The  fitful  night-wind's  melancholy  moan, 
And  see  the  wasted  form,  the  dim  eye  see 
Of  some  pale  victim  of  fell  tyranny  ; 
A  pray'r  ascends  on  high,  ev'n  Hope  is  there, 
Lighting  the  dungeon's  gloom  in  spite  of  grim  despair. 

X. 

Hope  cheers  the  widow  and  the  orphan  pale, 
All  trembling  in  misfortune's  piercing  gale  ; 
Sustains  the  humble  mendicant  and  slave, 
Thro'  years  of  misery,  to  the  friendly  grave  ; 
1  1  dries  the  mourner's  tear,  it  soothes  the  heart, 
When  forc'd  from  all  it  holds  most  dear  to  part  — 
Softens  affliction,  lightens  every  care, 
And  strengthens  fallen  man,  the  ills  of  life  to  bear. 

XI. 

Where  howling  winds  sweep  o'er  Siberian  snows, 
Or  where  the  suffocating  Siroc  blows, 
Or  where  the  breath  of  eve  in  rich  perfume 
Comes  faint  from  Indian  vales  in  flowery  bloom, 
Or  where  at  morn  the  streaming  sun-beams  play 


100  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

On  Chinese  temples,  or  where  bursts  the  day, 
All  glowing,  on  the  far  Pacific  isles, 
Amid  the  glittering  waves,  there  Hope  serenely  smiles. 

XII. 

The  star  of  Hope  enlightens  every  clime, 
Intensely  burning  since  the  birth  of  time  ; 
And  smiles  and  promises  eternal  play, 
Like  coruscations,  in  each  dazzling  ray  ; 
Dispensing  happiness — dispersing  gloom, 
Bright'ning  our  pathway  onward  to  the  tomb, 
Shining  on  every  rank,  in  every  stage, 
From  childhood's  happy  years,  to  silver-hair'd  old  age. 

XIII. 

Sweet-smiling  Hope  !  long  may  thy  light  divine* 
On  fair  Columbia  propitious  shine — 
Long  may  her  citizens  behold  thy  star, 
Unclouded  by  the  rolling  dun  of  war — 
Undimm'd  by  discord,  see  thy  dazzling  rays, 
United  in  one  broad  expansive  blaze, 
Far  streaming  'round  the  land,  from  sea  to  sea, 
On  scenes  of  innocence  and  sweet  tranquillity. 


LONG  AGO. 

I. 

AFAR,  by  an  ancient  and  shadowy  wood, 
In  the  midst  of  a  garden  my  early  home  stood  ; 
Nor  distance,  nor  time  can  the  memory  blot, 
Of  that  pleasant,  secluded,  and  vine-shaded  spot  : 
Perfume,  with  the  honey-bee's  murmuring  sound. 


POEMS    BY    J.    S.    FRF1IGH.  K}1 


Came  faintly  from  blossoming  orchards  around  ; 
The  sweet  voice  of  gladness,  the  low  sound  of  streams. 
And  wood-notes  as  wild  as  the  music  of  dreams, 
Went  up  like  a  hymn  in  the  morning's  rich  glow, 
In  the  freshness  of  spring-time  and  youth,  long  ago  ! 

Long  ago  !  long  ago  ! 
In  the  freshness  of  spring-time  and  youth,  long  ago  ! 

II. 

The  distant  bell's  tinkle,  the  echoing  sound 

Of  the  home-calling  horn  from  the  hamlets  around. 

The  sweet-thrilling  tones  of  affection  and  love, 

The  soft  plaintive  notes  of  the  cuckoo  and  dove — 

The  robin  that  sang  in  the  poplar  at  morn — 

The  quail's  early  pipe  by  the  blossoming  thorn — 

The  echoes  of  morning  from  valley  and  hill, 

Or  sweet  song  at  eve  of  the  lone  Whip-poor-will, 

A  lingering  spell  of  enchantment  would  throw 

'Round  the  home  of  my  childhood  and  youth,  long  ago  ! 

Long  ago  !    long  ago  ! 
'Round  the  home  of  my  childhood  and  youth,  long  ago  ! 

III. 

Far  back,  through  the  glimmering  vista  of  years, 
That  home,  to  my  wandering  fancy  appears 
Like  the  beautiful  Eden  of  some  sunny  clime, 
An  ever-green  spot  on  the  wide  waste  of  time. 
And  visions  of  beauty,  and  gladness,  and  tears, 
Come  up  from  afar  thro'  the  dim  waste  of  years  ; 
I  can  see  as  the  shadowy  past  is  unroll'd, 
The  family  circle,  and  fire-side  of  old  : 
Familiar  tones  greet  me — a  voice  sweet  and  low, 


.  FUEIKb    BT    J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

Kindly  welcomes  me  home  as  in  days  long  ago  ! 

Long  ago  !  long  ago  ! 
Kindly  welcomes  me  home  as  in  days  long  ago  ! 

IV. 

Still  memory  pictures  the  far-away  scene, 

The  dim  forest-path,  and  the  meadows  of  green — 

The  orchard,  the  garden,  the  rural  retreat, 

With  the  tapering  poplars,  and  vine-shaded  seat ; 

Still  sweetly  the  light  of  the  morning  sun  shines 

On  the  cottage  afar,  by  the  dark-waving  pines, 

And  the  music  of  birds  is  abroad  in  the  air, 

And  all  save  the  lov'd  ones  of  childhood  are  there  ; 

They  will  come  not  at  spring-time  when  violets  blow, 

I  shall  meet  them  no  more  as  in  days  long  ago  ! 

Long  ago  !  long  ago  ! 
I  shall  meet  them  no  more  as  in  days  long  ago  ! 


PENCILINGS. 

tf 

SUNRISE. 

INCENSE  and  rosy  light  were  pour'd 

From  the  golden  urn  of  day, 
As  the  flash  of  Aurora's  chariot  wheels 

Had  melted  the  night  away, 
While  it  gilded  the  mountain  peaks  with  fire, 
And  gleam'd  like  a  smile  on  the  village  spire. 


'Twas  Noon — the  peaceful  flocks  and  herds 
In  a  checker'd  rural  scene, 


POEMS   BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH.  103 

Were  wandering  by  silver  streams, 

In  valleys  lone  and  green — 
While  the  spreading  shade  of  the  sombre  firs. 
Made  a  cool  retreat  for  the  harvesters. 

THE    STORM. 

The  sun  declin'd — a  hill  of  clouds 

Rose  towering,  edg'd  with  flame — 
Swift  from  their  dark  revolving  folds, 

The  lightning  lances  came  ; 
While  Ruin  grim,  with  shadowy  form, 
Came  riding  on  the  red-wing'd  storm. 

THE    RAINBOW. 

It  pass'd — the  Bow  of  Peace  appear'd, 

Radiant  with  heavenly  dyes — 
An  arch  of  glory  in  the  East, 

Bending  along  the  skies — 
Like  a  trail  of  melting  splendors  bright. 
Left  glowing  after  an  Angel's  flight. 

SUNSET. 

It  faded — at  the  close  of  day 

The  broad  sun  sunk  to  rest, 
Where  clouds  were  pencil'd  in  crimson  bars, 

Afar  in  the  gorgeous  West — 

And  the  glow  on  the  wall  of  Heav'n  was  bright, 
As  the  golden  portals  to  endless  light. 

NIGHT. 
Night  darken'd  'round — the  lights  were  hung 

In  Heav'n — star  after  star, 
Like  golden  lamps  'round  the  throne  of  God, 


104  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

In  the  azure  vault  afar — 
While  slept  the  Moon's  sweet  silvery  smile, 
On  mountain,  and  valley,  and  lonely  isle. 


THE   THREE    PICTURES. 
I. 

I  SAW  a  picture — light  and  shade 

Were  so  completely  blended, 
The  eye  could  not  distinguish  where 

The  one  began  or  ended — 
Save  where  the  vices  left  a  blot, 
Or  virtues  brighten'd  some  lone  spot. 

It  was  a  picture  of  the  past, 

From  early  days  of  gladness, 
The  interwoven  light  and  shade 

Was  mingled  joy  and  sadness — 
My  checker'd  life  I  there  could  see, 
Portray 'd  and  sketch'd  by  MEMORY. 

II. 

It  faded  and  another  came 

Of  more  transparent  brightness  ; 

The  Rainbow's  gorgeous  coloring 
Floated  with  airy  lightness 

The  glorious  forms  and  scenes  around, 

Upspringing  from  enchanted  ground. 

The  ocean  and  the  ocean  isles — 
Dim  woods  and  hoary  mountains — 

Far-wandering  streams  and  prairies  wide — 
Grottos  and  gushing  fountains, 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  105 


And  bright  conceptions,  rich  and  rare. 
IMAGINATION  pictur'd  there. 

III. 

It  melted  and  another  came—- 
While grouping  and  arranging 

The  magic  forms — the  scenes  appear'd 
Continually  changing, 

Yet  ever-luring,  new  and  bright, 

And  ever  promising  delight. 

That  picture  many  a  care  beguiles — 
The  changes  bright  and  endless, 

Are  all-absorbing  to  my  mind, 

When  weary-worn  and  friendless — 

For  all  things  good,  and  bright,  and  fair, 

The  charmer  HOPE  had  painted  there. 


"HOPE    ON,    HOPE    EVER." 
I. 

When  the  sunshine  of  gladness 

Has  pass'd  from  the  soul, 
And  the  dark  clouds  of  sadness 

Unceasingly  roll — 
When  the  Past  appears  only 

A  dim  "vale  of  tears" — 
And  the  Future  a  lonely 

And  wide  waste  of  years. 

II. 

The  Star  of  Hope  streaming 
Through  tempest  and  night, 


106  POEMS    BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

Is  kindly  left  beaming 
Our  pathway  to  light — 

Inspiring  and  cheering 
The  lone  and  oppress'd, 

To  the  weary  appearing 
A  haven  of  rest — 

III. 

Whose  calm  light  reposes 

'Mid  sadness  and  gloom, 
On  the  lilies  and  roses, 

That  bend  o'er  the  tomb — 
Like  a  seraph  sweet-smiling, 

'Midst  blight  and  decay, 
Through  the  cold  world  beguiling 

Our  wearisome  way. 

IV. 

In  ills  all-sustaining 

To  mortals  below, 
And  shining  and  reigning 

Wherever  we  go, 
Forsaking  us  never, 

Companion  and  friend — 
Then  "  Hope  on,  hope  ever." 

And  trust  to  the  end. 


DEDICATION    FOR   THE    ALBUM    OF    A  FAIR  UNKNOWN. 

WRITTEN    AT   THE    REQUEST    OF    A    FRIEND. 

Oh  !  may  these  fair  unsullied  leaves, 

An  emblem  of  thy  virtue  be, 
And  may  these  pages  e'er  remain 


POEMS    BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH.  107 

Unstain'd,  undimm'd  by  flattery, 
This  Book,  the  shrine  where  friends  shall  bring 
Friendship's  pure,  heart-felt  offering. 

May  Friendship,  Love,  Affection  strew 

On  these  fair  leaves  bright-blooming  flow'rs, 

Of  lasting  hue,  and  beauty  rare, 

Transplanted  from  the  Muses'  bow'rs  ; 

And  may  they  bloom  in  after  years, 

Unblighted  by  the  dew  of  tears. 

Thy  name  perchance  will  be  inscrib'd 

Within,  by  many  a  friendly  hand — 
Oh  !  may  it  in  the  "  Book  of  Life," 

God's  glorious  Album,  glittering  stand  ; 
With  bright  and  shining  names  to  be 
Eternally — eternally. 

Lady,  though  I  am  all  unknown, 

This  offering  I  send  to  thee, 
Forgive,  and  sometimes  when  alone, 

Muse  o'er  these  lines  and  think  of  me  . 
And  thro'  the  shadowy  clouds  of  care, 
Send  up  for  me  one  pure,  warm  pray'r. 


THE    GROWN,    THE   ROBE    AND   THE   WREATH. 
TO  MISS  S.  T. 
I. 

THY  Crown  be  virtue,  burnish'd  fine, 

By  charity  and  love  divine  ; 

May  innocence,  that  gem  so  rare, 


108  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

All  brightly  glow  and  sparkle  there  ; 
Then  over  all,  low-waving,  be 
The  graceful  plume  of  Modesty. 

II. 

Thy  Robe,  humility,  all  bright 
With  cheerfulness  and  pure  delight ; 
From  loosely  flowing  to  prevent, 
Bound  by  the  girdle  of  Content ; 
And  clasp'd  by  Prudence  to  confine, 
And  guard  from  every  base  design. 

III. 

May  faithful  friendship's  guardian  care, 
Protect  from  every  artful  snare  ; 
May  holy  love,  untaught  by  art,  - 
Refine  and  captivate  thy  heart ; 
May  friendship,  love,  affection  be 
Entwin'd,  to  form  a  Wreath  for  thee. 

IV. 

And  may  the  crown,  thy  path-way  brighten, 
And  even  thy  whole  mind  enlighten  ; 
The  Robe,  endure  the  waste  of  years  ; 
Unsullied  by  the  dew  of  tears  ; 
The  Wreath,  from  baneful  breezes  free. 
Unblighted,  bloom  continually. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  )(>:» 


ALETHE. 
I. 

I  saw  Alethe — she  was  young  and  fair, 

A  rose-bud  op'ning  to  the  balmy  Spring  ; 
And  as  she  knelt  in  holy,  fervent  pray'r, 

Her  youthful  heart  to  God  surrendering, 
The  music  of  her  voice  in  murmurs  low, 

Sounded  like  tones  of  sweetest  melody, 
Half-waking  heard — or  like  the  silver  flow 

Of  some  lone  woodland  stream — she  seem'd  to  be 

A  type  of  perfect  beauty — Heav'nly  symmetry. 
\ 

II. 

Again  I  saw  Alethe —  it  was  where 

Dwelt  sickness,  poverty,  and  misery  deep — 
Where  prison  walls  enclos'd  a  parent  dear ; 

And  like  an  Angel  she  had  come  to  keep 
Watch  while  he  slept — to  comfort  him — to  pray. 

In  innocence  she  came,  like  Mercy's  dove, 
With  healing  balm,  to  soothe  his  cares  away  ! 

Oh  !  such  sweet  tenderness — such  holy  love. 
Must  be  akin  to  that  in  the  bright  world  above. 

III. 

Once  more  I  saw  Alethe— at  her  breast 

Hung  a  sweet  infant,  and  the  radiant  smile 
That  revel'd  'round  its  lips,  while  calm  at  rest, 

Was  like  the  smile  of  Cherubs — free  from  guile, 
Ethereal,  bright. — Surpassing  fancy's  dreaming, 

The  mother  shone — for  fancy  ne'er  could  paint 
Aught  so  much  like  a  guardian  angel  beaming 

In  full  beneficence,  upon  a  saint 
As  sweetly  innocent — as  free  from  earthly  taint. 


110  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

IONE. 

I  can  give  thee  but  dark  revealings 

Of  passionate  hopes,  and  wasted  feelings  ; 

Of  love  that  shall  pass  like  a  green  sea  wave, 

Of  a  broken  heart,  and  an  early  grave. — GIPSEY  PROPHECY. 

I. 

SWEET  peace  spread  thy  pathway  with  roses  all  blooming, 
Untouch'd  by  the  canker  of  grief  so  consuming — 
Sincerity,  prudence,  and  wisdom  direct  thee, 
And  every  bright  virtue  combine  to  protect  thee  ; 
Ne'er  may  blighted  hopes  of  contentment  bereave  thee, 
Nor  may  aught  occur  to  annoy  or  aggrieve  thee  ; 
And  oh  !  may'st  thou  triumph  when  death  comes,  and  even 
Have  the  wings  of  a  seraph  to  waft  thee  to  Heaven. 
A  mother's  pray'r. — She  held  a  rosy  child, 
The  lov'dof  many,  lightly  on  her  knee, 
The  young  lone,  innocent  and  mild, 

Look'd  up  -into  her  face  most  smilingly — 
Bright,  golden  curls  around  her  neck  were  twiniag 

Her  small  white  arms  extended  were,  to  meet 
A  mother's  warm  embrace — a  tear  was  shining 
Upon  her  rose-like  cheek — how  light  and  fleet 
Pass  off  the  griefs  of  childhood,  age  of  joys  most  sweet. 

II. 

Twelve  years  had  revolv'd,  when  I  stood  in  a  hall 
Where  the  young  and  light-hearted  held  high  festival ; 
There,  gather'd  the  lovely,  the  bright  ones  and  fair^ 
And  music,  soft  music  and  dancing  were  there. 
The  fragrance  of  roses  was  wafted  far  'round 
By  the  breeze  that  bore  faintly  the  lute's  lulling  sound. 
But  among  all  the  beauties  that  brighten'd  that  hall, 
lone  the  loveliest  seem'd  above  all. 


POEMS    BY   J.    S.    FEELIGH.  Ill 

It  was  her  bridal  day,  and  she  was  wed 

To  a  most  noble  youth,  and  fair  and  bright 
Her  destiny  appear'd,  for  hope  had  shed 

Before  her  flow'rs,  upon  a  path  of  light ; 
And  all  she  ask'd  of  happiness  was  giv'n, 

As  love  and  joy  around  her  young  heart  twin'd  ; 
Oh  !  there  is  naught  of  earth  so  much  like  Heav'n, 

So  all-absorbing  to  the  youthful  mind 
As  that  ecstatic  hour,  when  kindred  hearts  are  join'd. 

III. 

Twelve  years  had  revolv'd,  when  again  in  that  hall 

I  stood,  where  the  youthful  had  held  festival ; 

There,  again  met  the  lovely,  the  bright  ones  and  fair, 

But  feasting,  nor  music,  nor  dancing  was  there  ; 

Nor  fragrance  of  roses,  nor  chaplets  of  flow'rs, 

Nor  aught  to  beguile  the  dark,  lingering  hours, 

There  was  sadness,  and  gloom,  and  a  low  sound  of  weeping, 

For  pale  on  her  death-couch,  lone  was  sleeping. 

She  had  known  much  of  misery,  chang'd  and  pale 

She  had  become  past  all  imagining  : — 
Passing  one  day,  I  heard  the  feeble  wail 
Of  starving  children,  who  sat  shivering 
Around  the  wasted  brands  •  'twas  dark  December, 
And  moaning  winds  swept  o'er  the  rugged  heath  ; 
Reeling  from  out  a  tavern,  I  remember 

Her  husband  came — with  short  and  feeble  breath 
She  pray'd  for  him,  then  sank  in  the  cold  arms  of  death. 


NERANTHES. 

NERANTHES  soem'd  pure,  as  the  bright  dew  that  wets 
The  pale  lilies,  and  spangles  the  sweet  violets — 


112  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

As  pure  as  the  priceless  unsullied  gem, 

All  sparkling  'mid  pearls  on  some  queen's  diadem. 

As  pure  as  the  pale  trembling  star  of  the  morning, 
Or  thrice  refin'd  gold,  beauty's  bosom  adorning  ; 
As  pure  as  a  snow-drop,  or  wreath  of  white  roses, 
On  which  the  soft,  beautiful  moonlight  reposes. 


LINES  WRITTEN  FOR  A    SUNDAY-SCHOOL    CELEBRATION, 
For  the  4th  of  July,  1845,  and  spoken  by  a  little  Girl. 

WE  meet  to  celebrate  the  day, 
"  The  birth-day  of  the  free  "— 

Here,  let  our  offerings  be  made 
To  God  and  Liberty. 

A  heart  that  thrills  with  joy  and  love, 

Is  all  I  have  to  bring ; 
This  little  trembling  heart  shall  be 

To-day,  my  offering. 

I  look  around  on  happy  groups, 

And  smiling  faces  see, 
Of  little  children  like  myself, 

Come  to  rejoice  with  me. 

Then  let  us  sing,  and  let  us  march, 

And  celebrate  the  day — 
In  union  sweet  go  hand  in  hand, 

"  Rejoicing  on  our  way." 

Oh  !  haste  the  time  when  Sunday  Schools 

And  Liberty  shall  be 
A  light  and  joy  to  every  home, 

And  every  child  like  me. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  113 

And  may  the  bands  united  here, 

In  harmony  and  love, 
Part  only  to  be  link'd  again, 

In  one  bright  band  above. 


A    NEW    YEAR'S    HYMN. 
Sung  at  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  Mechaincville,  N.  Y.,  Jan.  1st,  1838. 

TIME  ceaseless  rolls  !  Again  I  hear 
The  knell  of  a  departed  year  ; 
The  buried  Past !  lost  in  the  sea 
Of  measureless  Eternity. 

And  with  the  year  have  pass'd  away 
The  young,  the  beautiful,  the  gay  ; — 
And  oh  !  how  many  lov'd  ones  dear, 
Have  vanish'd  with  the  by-gone  year. 

How  many  gifted  ones,  that  shed 
A  light  around,  are  with  the  dead  ? 
And  the  once  warm  and  beaming  brow 
Cold  in  the  dust  is  black'ning  now. 

The  buried  Past !  what  hopes  and  fears 
Have  mantled  o'er  that  waste  of  years  ; — 
Futurity  !  what  hopes  shall  be 
Born  into  life  and  crush'd  in  thee. 

Time  onward  rolls  !  the  monster  Death, 
Each  moment  stops  a  mortal's  breath  ; 
Thousands  are  dying  while  we  sing, 
And  countless  souls  from  earth  take  wing. 


114  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

Now  is  th'  accepted  time — to-day — 
Oh  !  may  we  constant  watch  and  pray  ; 
With  humble  hearts,  and  hearts  sincere, 
And  thus  secure  a  HAPPY  YEAR. 


TO  THE  LADIES  OF  THE  THIRD  PRESBYTERIAN  CHURCH. 

[The  following  lines  were  sent,  with  a  small  donation,  to  the  State  Tohacco 
Warehouse,  in  St.  Louis,  Mo.,  on  the  occasion  of  a  Supper  at  that  place,  for 
the  benefit  of  the  Third  Presbyterian  Church,  on  Christmas  Evening,  1844.] 

Heart-felt  pleasure  and  delight, 
And  a  merry  Christmas  night ; 
These,  with  other  wishes  kinder, ' 
Are  intended  for  the  finder. 

Thanks  to  the  Ladies — may  success 

Beyond  anticipation,  bless 

Their  efforts— may  the  «  Third  Church  "  be 

Completed  through  their  agency ; 

A  station  high  and  bright  to  fill, 

A  shining  light  on  Zion's  hill, 

Far-streaming  o'er  benighted  lands, 

On  savage  hordes  and  heathen  bands, 

With  steady,  pure,  undying  ray, 

Turning  the  night  of  mind  to  day. 

Give  my  respects  to  Mr.  FIELD* — 
Long  may  his  labors  with  us,  yield 
A  blessing — may  his  sacred  charge. 
And  sphere  of  usefulness  enlarge  ; 

*The  Pastor. 


POEMS  »BY   J.    S.    FRELIGK.  115 


And  may  the  "  Third  Church  "  flourish  fair, 
And  spread  and  prosper  in  his  care. 

Excuse  me  to  the  Ladies,  pray — 
The  author  cannot  go  away, 
Without  their  pardon,  full  and  free, 
A  Lady's  smile,  and  cup  of  tea. 


TO  LOUISA. 

MAY  Faith,  with  Hope  and  Charity  unite, 
To  form  a  wreath  for  thee,  unfading,  bright  ^ 
May  Innocence,  sweet  Modesty  and  Grace, 
A  veil  of  beauty  weave,  to  shade  thy  face  ; 
May  Friendship,  Love,  Affection  each  enshrine 
A  heart  for  thee,  that  shall  be  ever  thine  ; 
May  Prudence,  Wisdom,  every  Virtue  be 
A  guardian  Angel,  watching  over  thee. 
Long  may'st  thou  live  respected — lov'd,  and  grace 
Refine,,  and  ornament  the  female  race. 
Thro'  this  vain  world  may  Peace  thy  steps  attend. 
Enjoying  Health,  Contentment,  and A  FRIEND. 


I  THINK   OF   THEE. 

TO    THE    SAME. 

I  THINK  of  thee  at  morn's  first  ray, 
And  thro'  the  lone  and  weary  day  ; 
And  when  the  dew  of  Heav'n  reposes 
At  night,  on  violets  and  roses. 


11  «>  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

I  think  of  thee. — And  oft  it  seems 
That  thou  art  present  in  my  dreams — 
Imagination  then  will  bring 
Thy  form,  thy  smile,  thy  welcoming. 

I  think  of  thee  as  one  for  whom 
I  live,  whatever  be  my  doom  ; 
As  one  to  whom  my  heart  is  giv'n, 
My  chosen  in  the  sight  of  Heav'n. 

I  think  of  thee,  Louisa,  now, 
In  fancy  see  thee — where  art  thou  ? 
Where'er  thou  art,  oh  !  may  I  share, 
Thy  changeless  love — thy  fervent  pray'r. 


TO  MISS  c.  M.  D. 
CALM  be  the  days  of  thy  life,  free  from  sadness, 

Remov'd  far  from  envy  and  calumny's  wile  ; 
And  oh  !  may  the  beautiful  halo  of  gladness, 

On  thy  future  life  ever  graciously  smile. 

Love,  purest  love,  and  true  friendship  attend  thee  ; 

Ne'er  may  despair  o'er  thy  spirit  prevail ; 
Innocence,  prudence,  and  wisdom  defend  thee, 

Even  should  friendship  and  love  ever  fail. 

May  cheerfulness,  health  and  contentment  surround  thee; 

Thro'  life  may  soft,  prosperous  breezes  e'er  blow, 
And  ever  may  peace,  smiling  peace,  reign  around  thee, 

Illumine  thy  path,  and  disperse  every  woe. 

Let  truth  be  thy  aim,  and  may  Angels  watch  o'er  thee, 
And  guard  thee  from  harm  in  the  hush'd  hours  of  rest. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  117 


Depart  ne'er  from  virtue,  a  sure  guide  before  thee — 
Depart  ne'er  from  virtue,  and  thou  shalt  be  blest. 

Unharm'd  by  thy  enemies,  may  Heav'n  take  thee 
In  keeping — the  malice  defeat  of  thy  foes  ; 

So  live,  that  the  pow'r  from  above  ne'er  forsake  thee, 
Nor  friendless  and  lone  to  the  cold  world  expose 

Bright  Hope  and  true  Faith,  like  the  mild  breath  of  morning, 
Refuse  ne'er  with  rapture,  thy  bosom  to  swell, 

United  with  Charity,  meekly  adorning, 

Yes,  every  bright  virtue  on  earth — Fare-thee-well. 


TO  MY  COUSIN   MARY. 
I. 

Muse,  wake  the  lyre,  and  naught  dissemble, 
Celestial  music  'round  thee  tremble  ; 
Melodiously,  and  sweetly  sing, 
Thy  softest  tones  low-murmuring, 
One  pure  and  artless  pray'r  to  breathe, 
One  little  garland  bright  to  wreathe. 
May  Angels  o'er  thy  steps  be  wary, 
To  guide,  protect,  and  bless  thee,  Mary. 

II. 

Be  thy  mind  pure,  void  of  offence, 
And  guileless  as  holy  innocence — 
Thy  manners  unaffected,  free, 
Yet  sweetly  winning  as  modesty — 
Pure  as  the  azure  of  summer  skies, 
Or  blooming  flow'r  of  Paradise  ; 


118  POEMS   BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH. 


From  virtue's  path,  oh  !  never  vary. 
And  thou  wilt  e'er  be  happy,  Mary. 

II. 

And  Mary  may'st  thou  never  be 
Expos'd  to  chill  adversity, 
Nor  wily  art  of  guileful  foe, 
Nor  blighted  hope,  nor  care,  nor  woe, — 
Nor  aught  thy  trusting  heart  deceive, 
Nor  aught  occur  to  make  thee  grieve. 
May  Angels  o'er  thy  steps  be  wary, 
And  holy  watch  keep  'round  thee,  Mary. 

IV. 

Undimm'd  thro'  life,  may  hope's  bright  star 

Shine  forth  a  glorious  harbinger— - 

In  cloudless  skies  forever  set, 

Gilding  from  far  thy  coronet ; 

And  then  at  death  thy  crown  shall  be 

Exchang'd,  for  one  of  victory  ; 

May  Angels  o'er  thy  steps  be  wary 

And  take  thee  home  to  Heaven,  Mary. 


TO    CAROLINE. 

I. 

Smiling  Hope,  shine  bright  before  thee, 
Angels  spread  their  bright  wings  o'er  thee, 
Prosperity  on  thee  attend, 
And  never  may'st  thou  want  a  friend  ; 
May  pure  Religion  light  the  way 
Above,  to  everlasting  day  ; 


POEMS    BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH. 


Where  sin  and  grief  can  ne'er  combine 
To  mar  the  peace  of  Caroline. 

II. 

Should  sickness  cause  thy  strength  to  fail, 
The  rose  upon  thy  cheek  turn  pale  ; 
Should  fell  disease,  with  all  its  train 
Of  ills,  attack  with  racking  pain  : 
May  friends,  kind  friends  and  true,  be  near  thee, 
To  soothe  with  friendship's  balm,  and  cheer  thee  ; 
May  friends,  dear  friends,  and  lov'd  ones  join 
To^smooth  the  pillow  of  Caroline. 

III. 

Though  blighted  hope,  and  pain  and  woe, 
Be  mine  in  this  cold  world  below  ; 
Tho'  misery's  keenest,  deadliest  dart 
Should  rankle  deeply  in  my  heart  ; 
Tho'  every  joy  depart  from  me, 
And  dark  should  low'r  my  destiny  — 
Yet,  grant  kind  Heav'n,  this  pray'r  of  mine, 
"  Remember  with  kindness  Caroline." 

IV. 

Oh  !  could'st  thou  always  happy  be, 
As  happy  as  I  now  wish  thee  — 
As  free  from  care,  as  free  from  pain, 
As  free  from  every  sinful  stain  — 
As  free  from  all  the  ills  of  life, 
From  sickness,  poverty  and  strife  :  — 
That  blooming  rose  would  never  pine 
Upon  the  cheek  of  Caroline. 


120 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 


V. 

When  death,  a  pale  cold  corse  hath  made  thee, 
And  friends  have  in  the  damp  grave  laid  thee, 
Oh  !  may  thy  s  pirit  cloth'd  in  light, 
With  life  and  glory,  dazzling  bright, 
Find  peace  and  pure  Angelic  love 
Among  the  shining  bands  above — 
Where  thou  shalt  ever,  ever  shine, 
A  pure  bright  Seraph,  Caroline. 


TO    MARGARET, 
I. 

PEACE,  Health,  and  Competence  unite 
To  shed  around  thee  pure  delight ; 
May  op'ning  truths  thy  garland  be, 
All  bath'd  in  founts  of  purity  ; 
And  ever  green,  and  ever  bright, 
And  ever  glorious  in  the  light 
Of  virtue,  may  that  garland  shine, 
Unfading,  spotless  and  divine  ; 
Then  vice,  nor  murmuring  regret, 
Can  wound  the  heart  of  Margaret. 

II. 

Should  sickness  pale  of  health  bereave  thee  ; 
Should  this  cold,  friendless  world  deceive  thee  ; 
Should  dearest  joys  from  thee  be  parted, 
And  leave  thee  all  but  broken-hearted  ; 
Should  no  kind,  friendly  voice  be  near  thee, 
To  comfort  thy  sad  heart  and  cheer  thee  : 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  121 

Then,  Lady,  then,  could  I  but  save  thee, 
Ere  vice  or  misery  enslave  thee — 
No  tears,  save  those  of  joy,  should  wet 
The  blooming  cheek  of  Margaret. 

III. 

And  when  at  last  pale  death  shall  come, 
And  bear  thee  to  his  cold,  damp  home, 
May  Angels  with  thy  spirit  rise, 
Far,  far  up  in  the  pure  blue  skies  ; 
Far,  far  from  earth's  vain,  petty  jars — 
Far,  far  beyond  the  burning  stars, 
Where  all  are  happy,  all  are  blest, 
And  where  the  "  weary  are  at  rest ;" 
Where  sin,  nor  care,  nor  grief  can  fret 
The  spirit  pure  of  Margaret. 


TO    CHARLOTTE. 

How  fair  are  young  flow'rs,  and  how  beautiful,  seen 
In  the  soft  balmy  spring-time,  in  purple  and  green, 

Gold-color'd,  deep  crimson,  and  scarlet. 
The  fairest  of  flow'rs,  may  the  rose  of  health  bloom, 
The  lily  of  innocence  shed  its  perfume, 

Springing  up  in  the  pathway  of  Charlotte. 


POEMS    BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH. 


TO    THE  ABSENT.* 
I. 

'Tis  a  midsummer  Sabbath  —  a  bright  day  of  rest, 
I  am  lonely  and  sad  in  the  far-away  West  ; 
No  friend  of  my  childhood  —  no  lov'd  one  is  nigh  ; 
Before  me  the  dark,  deep  Missouri  sweeps  by  ; 
My  home  is  afar,  where  my  Mother  and  Boy 
Are  waiting  to  meet  me,  and  welcome  with  joy. 
But  the  dearest  of  all  will  be  absent  —  Oh  !  when 
Shall  we  meet  'round  the  hearth  in  our  cottage  again  1 

II. 

My  heart  is  with  loneliness  deeply  oppress'd, 

Let  us  love  one  another  and  hope  for  the  best. 

I  think  of  the  absent  —  in  fancy  I  see 

Each  form  and  each  face  —  are  they  thinking  of  me  ] 

Earth  cannot  a  holier  rapture  impart, 

Than  the  meeting  with  long  absent  friends  of  our  heart  ; 

Now  all  are  by  distance  divided  —  Oh  !  when 

Shall  we  meet  'round  the  hearth  in  our  cottage  again  1 


THE    LITTLE    MESSENGER. 

FROM  dewy  morn  to  silent  eve, 
We  think  and  talk  of  her, 

And  now  we  are  resolv'd  to  send 
This  little  Messenger. 

Go  to  the  absent  lov'd  one — say, 
Low-whispering  in  her  ear, 

*Written  at  Jefferson  City,  Mo.,  Sunday,  July  21st,  1844. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  123 

How  happy  we  should  be  again, 
If  she  were  only  here. 

Tell  her  we  are  "  so  lonesome  "  now, 

And  daily  miss  her  so, 
Though  all  too  late,  we  ask  ourselves, 

How  could  we  let  her  go  ? 

Say  how  we  miss  her  at  the  board, 

In  her  accustom'd  place  ; 
And  how  we  miss  around  the  hearth, 

Her  sweet  familiar  face. 

Tell  her  if  she  is  only  blest 

That  we  will  not  complain, 
But  every  hour  will  seem  an  age, 

Until  we  meet  again. 

And  say  we  wish  her  health  and  joy, 

And  don't  forget  to  tell, 
That  with  her  distant,  western  home, 

Tho'  lonely,  "  all  is  well." 


THE   RECALL. 

RETURN  to  us  dearest,  for  long  seems  the  day, 

And  lonely  the  fire-side  when  thou  art  away  ; 

In  our  circle  at  evening  we  look  'round  in  vain, 

For  the  link  that  once  brightened  the  whole  happy  chain. 

Return  to  us  dearest,  one  heart  warm  and  free, 
In  the  far  West  is  beating  for  thee,  only  thee  ; 
That  heart,  though  it  may  in  deep  loneliness  pine, 
Can  ne'er  be  another's — 'tis  thine,  only  thine. 


124  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 


Return  to  us  dearest,  we  have  a  home  still, 
But  thy  place,  my  Louisa,  no  other  can  fill ; 
And  no  music  our  gladness  of  heart  can  restore, 
But  thy  own  gentle  voice  in  our  cottage  once  more. 

Return  to  us  dearest,  no  longer  to  roam 
From  the  little  band  waiting  to  welcome  thee  home  ; 
We  are  pining  for  thee  in  the  far-away  West, 
But  link'd  with  our  lov'd  one  again  shall  be  blest. 


MY    WIFE— MY    BOY— AND    ME. 

MY  WIFE  when  at  our  cottage-door, 

With  joy  I  welcome  thee  ; 
One  mutual  kiss  shall  link  again 

My  wife — my  boy — and  me. 

My  BOY  has  said  his  evening  pray'r, 

How  happy  he  would  be, 
Once  more  united  with  the  band, 

My  wife — my  boy — and  me. 

Me — earth  no  happiness  can  give 

Like  that  I  hope  to  see. 
When  next  we  meet  around  the  hearth. 

My  wife — my  boy — and  me. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  125 


LINES, 

Written  while  my  Wife  and  Child  were  sick  at  Sulphur  Springs,  five  miles  from 
St,  Louis,  Mo.,  November  1840. 

May  gentle  breezes  from  the  woodlands  wild, 
Restore  to  health  my  Wife  and  only  Child. 
Thou  who  did'st  raise  the  dead  and  walk  the  sea, 
Though  all  unworthy  still  remember  me  ; 

And  save  Oh"!  save  the  lov'd  ones  of  my  heart ; 
Speak  but  the  word,  and  Oh  !  we  shall  not  part. 
Send  health,  and  joy,  and  peace,  and  all  restore, 
To  meet  around  the  cheerful  hearth  once  more. 


MORNING-   SALUTATION   TO    MY   FAMILY. 
CHRISTMAS,  1844. 

"  MERRY  CHRISTMAS  "  to  my  Mother  ! 
May  no  Christmas  day  be  other 
Than  a  day  (to  her)  of  gladness, 
Unalloy'd  by  care  and  sadness. 

"  Merry  Christmas  "  to  my  Wife  ! 
Long  and  happy  be  her  life, 
Govern'd  by  the  sisters  three, 
Faith,  and  Hope,  and  Charity. 

"  Merry  Christmas  "  to  my  Boy  ! 
May  his  life  be  one  of  joy, 
And  his  merit  make  him  rise, 
To  be  useful,  good  and  wise. 


126  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

LINES, 

Accompanying  a  New  Year's  Gift  to  my  Wife. 

"  Happy  New  Year !"  "Happy  New  Year  !" 

May  our  little  band  be  found 
Link'd  as  happily  together 

When  another  year  rolls  'round. 

Ours  has  been  a  blissful  union — 
Happiness  has  crown'd  each  day"; 

Like  the  Past,  so  may  the  Future 
Glide  as  pleasantly  away. 

Blessings  have  been  ours  unnumber'd — 
May  one  pure  and  heart-felt  pray'r 

Rise  like  incense  to  the  Giver, 
For  his  kind  protecting  care. 

Though  our  little  band  unbroken, 
Cannot  long  on  earth  remain, 

May  we  all  be  re-united 
In  one  bright  eternal  chain. 


ON   THE   DEATH   OF   MISS    MARGARET    SMITH, 
A  Scholar  of  the  Author's,  who  died   at  the  house  of  her  brother-iri-law,  Dr.  C. 
BOUGHTON,  in  Middletown,  Saratoga  county,  N.  Y.,  March  23d,  1831,   aged 
nineteen  years. 

Early,  bright,  transient,  chaste  as  morning  dew. 
She  sparkled,  was  exhal'd  and  went  to  Heav'n. 
*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

How  blessings  brighten  as  they  take  their  flight.— YOUNG. 

AND  is  she  dead,  the  fair-hair'd  Margaret, — 
And  is  the  damp,  damp  grave  her  dwelling  now — 
Who  mov'd  among  us  late,  the  lov'd  of  all ; 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  127 


She  of  the  mild  blue  eye,  upon  whose  cheek 

The  full-blown  rose  of  nineteen  summers  bloom'd  ! 

But  yesterday  I  saw  her  walking  forth 

In  all  the  gaiety  of  joyous  youth, 

And  blooming  health,  gladd'ning  the  hearts  of  all. 

Her  friends,  (and  she  had  many,)  little  thought 

That  even  then  the  woe-fraught  dart  of  death 

Was  on  its  way,  and  soon  would  pierce  her  heart. 

They  little  thought,  who  lov'd  her  so,  how  soon 

They  would  surround  her  death-bed — little  thought 

How  soon  they'd  dig  her  grave. — Perchance  she  dream'd 

E'en  then  of  future  bliss — of  smiling  spring, 

And  summer  bright — of  groves  and  silver  streams — 

Of  sunny  meadows  strew'd  with  lilies  fair, 

Where  she  would  walk  with  lov'd  ones  plucking  flow'rs  ; 

Perchance  anticipation  brought  to  mind, 

Her  parent's  heart-felt  welcome,  when  return'd 

To  her  bright,  happy  home.     Oh  !  I  can  see 

Her  now  in  fancy,  as  she  oft  was  wont 

To  stand  before  her  Father, — I  can  see 

Her  small  white  fingers  braiding  his  thin  locks ; 

And  now  she  speaks  :  I  hear  her  soft  sweet  voice, 

Like  music  low — and  now  she  smiles — and  now 

She  playfully  looks  up  into  his  face, 

Where  tenderness  and  love  parental  beams  ! 

She's  gone  : — just  now  her  busy  fingers  twin'd 

Her  Father's  yellow  locks— 'twas  but  a  dream, 

For  she  is  dead  !  those  small  white  fingers  now 

Are  cold  and  stiff  in  death  ! — he  never  more 

Upon  his  brow  will  feel  that  soft  warm  hand  ; 

Another  now  will  braid  his  scatter'd  locks  ; 

Another  now  at  morn  and  eve  will  call 

To  share  the  ready  meal ;  her  parents  now 


128  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 


No  more  will  hear  her  soft  voice  echoing 

Prom  room  to  room,  or  ever  more  pronounce 

Father  or  Mother  !  and  the  winter  eve, 

The  long,  long  winter  eve,  will  doubly  long 

To  them  appear,  without  their  Margaret. 

Oft  in  their  slumbers  they  will  dream  of  her  ; 

All  bright  and  smiling,  she  will  seem  to  move, 

Her  features  all  distinctly  natural ; 

Her  very  voice  will  seem  as  it  did  once, 

Sweet  music  to  their  ears — with  outstretch'd  arms 

To  meet  their  child's  embrace  they'll  wake — and  oh  ! 

Bitter  will  be  their  waking. 

Oh,  Heav'nly  Father  !  heal  and  comfort  them  ! 

Be  Thou  their  friend  in  this  calamity  ; 

May  it  cause  them  to  love  Thee  still  the  more  ; 

Enable  them  with  deep  humility 

And  holy  resignation  to  bow  down 

And  say,  "  Thy  will  be  done." 

And  oh  !  her  sister,  and  that  one  who  was 

To  her  a  second  sister  !*  will  not  they, 

When  visiting  the  scenes  where  they  have  stray'd 

In  early  childhood,  miss  their  Margaret  1 

Will  not  those  scenes  seem  desolate  and  sad 

Without  her  company — her  who  was  wont 

To  walk  with  them  in  groves  and  flowery  fields, 

Close  by  their  side,  discoursing  pleasantly  1 

Oh,  Heav'nly  Father  !  pour  the  healing  balm 

Of  consolation  in  their  wounded  hearts, 

And  may  their  thanks  arise  in  humble  pray'r. 

For  thy  kind  providence  in  sparing  them. 

Art  thou  in  health,  gay,  thoughtless,  blooming  youth  '? 

Hast  thou  a  home,  kind  friends,  and  happiness  1 

*Her  friend  and  companion,  an  amiable  young  lady  of  the  same  age,  with  whom 
she  attended  school,  and  who  also  boarded  at  Dr.  Boughton's. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  129 


Her  path  before  her  seem'd  as  bright  as  thine  ; 

For  all  that  health,  or  friends,  or  wealth  could  give 

Were  hers — and  where  is  she  1  low  in  the  grave  ! 

Art  thou  in  health,  gay,  thoughtless,  blooming  youth  ? 

Anticipating  a  long  life  of  bliss ; 

Reflect  on  death — it  ne'er  has  laid  one  low, 

Whose  prospects  of  long  life  and  happiness 

Than  hers  seem'd  fairer — be  thou  then  prepar'd. 

Art  thou  in  health,  gay,  thoughtless,  blooming  youth  '? 

Where  the  roof  rings  with  revelry  and  song  ] 

Or  in  the  dance,  or  at  the  joyous  feast  1 

Or,  better  far,  'round  the  domestic  hearth  1 

Think  of  the  gloom  that  reigns  where  Margaret  sleeps. 


ON  THE   SAME. 

*'  A  father's  fondness,  nor  a  mother's  care, 
A  sister's  love,  nor  friendship's  hallow'dtear," 
Nor  blooming  youth,  nor  human  skill  could  save, 
The  lov'd  of  many,  from  an  early  grave.* 

I. 

WHEN  first  theyf  heard  of  Margaret's  death, 
In  very  awe  they  held  their  breath ; 
Awe-struck  they  seem'd  when  it  was  told 
How  she  was  dead,  and  pale,  and  cold  ; 
At  length  was  heard  in  whispers  low, 
"  It  cannot  be — it  is  not  so — 
She  is  not  dead — we'll  see  her  yet 
In  blooming  health — poor  Margaret ! 

*The  Epitaph  on  her  tomb.  fThose  with  whom  she  attended  school. 


130  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

II. 

She  was  so  kind  and  good  to  all, 
So  friendly  to  the  children  small, 
It  griev'd  their  hearts  to  think,  no  more 
They'd  meet  her  smiling  at  the  door, 
Where  pleasantly  she  all  did  greet, 
As  all  with  joy  her  name  repeat — 
But  yesterday  with  them  she  met, 
In  blooming  health — poor  Margaret  ! 

in. 

With  her  no  more  will  they  rejoice, 
No  more  will  hear  her  soft  sweet  voice, 
No  more  will  see  her  smiling  face 
Amongst  them — in  her  wonted  place 
At  school,  her  books  lie  scatter'd  'round, 
And  she  lies  in  the  cold,  cold  ground — 
But  yesterday  with  them  she  met 
Tn  blooming  health — poor  Margaret ! 

IV. 

She  had  not  died — she  had  not  died — 
She  still  had  been  her  parents'  pride, 
If  tears,  or  pray'rs  of  friends  could  save, 
Or  human  skill  snatch  from  the  grave  ; 
But  tears,  nor  pray'rs  of  friends,  nor  skill 
Could  save — yield  then  to  Heaven's  will, 
And  weep  no  more — nor  more  regret, 
For  now  she's  happy — Margaret ! 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  131 

ON    THE    SAME. 
I. 

SING,  heavenly  Muse,  in  plaintive  numbers, 
Of  one  who  in  the  cold  grave  slumbers, 
Touch  not  the  lyre  too  full  and  free, 
But  wake  it  soft — melodiously. 
Rare  music  floats  in  upper  skies, 
'Rouud  ever-blooming  paradise, 
And  list'ning  there,  by  Angels  met 
Around  God's  throne,  shines  Margaret. 

* 
II. 

Thy  mind  from  baneful  passions  free, 
Seem'd  pure  as  the  pray'r  of  Charity  ; 
Thy  course  was  bright  as  a  dazzling  star, 
Yet  brief  as  a  passing  meteor ; 
Thou  had'st  no  foes,  for  all  did  love  thee  ; 
Rest,  with  the  cold  earth  heap'd  above  thee — 
Rest,  the  willow  is  o'er  thee  weeping — 
Rest,  not  earth  shall  disturb  thy  sleeping. 

III. 

None  thought,  who  saw  thy  cheek  so  fair, 

So  soon  the  worm  would  banquet  there. 

They  thought  the  grave  was  too  cold  and  wet, 

For  the  lovely  form  of  Margaret. 

Now  gathering  damps  thro'  the  coffin's  mould, 

Is  trickling  around  thy  temples  cold, 

And  above  thee  the  wither'd  grass  does  wave, 

As  the  midnight  winds  howl  o'er  thy  grave. 

IV. 

And  never,  oh !  never  have  hopes  more  bright, 
Been  darken'd  by  Death's  cold  withering  blight, 


132  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

So  lov'd,  so  young,  in  youthful  bloom, 

To  go  down  to  the  darksome  and  silent  tomb  ! 

Oh  !  'tis  a  sad  and  awful  thought, 

With  warning,  deep  warning,  and  wisdom  fraught ; 

May  we  meet  her  in  bliss,  where  her  spirit  reposes, 

Above,  in  a  bow'r  of  perennial  roses. 


LINES, 

On  the  death  of  a  child  two»years  old,  son  of  Mr.  Nicholas  Lighthall,  who  was 
drowned  in  the  canal,  one  mile  north  of  Waterford,  Saratoga  county,  N.  Y. 
October  22d,  1828. 

Ere  sin  could  blight,  or  sorrow  fade, 

Death  came  with  friendly  care, 
The  op'ning  bud  to  Heav'n  convey'd, 

And  bade  it  blossom  there. — COLERIDGE. 

THOU  wert  alone,  sweet  lov'd  one,  none  was  near, 

With  outstretch'd  arm  to  save  thee — no  one  saw 

Thy  little  struggles,  as  the  water  deep, 

Clos'd  o'er  thee — no  one  knew  until  too  late, 

To  save  thy  precious  life,  the  sad  disaster  ! 

No,  not  until  thy  spirit  pure  had  flown 

Far  from  this  cold  unfeeling  world  of  woe, 

To  realms  of  bliss  on  high. 

Oh  !  for  the  parents'  ears,  what  dreadful  news  ; 

And  then,  the  hope  protracted,  that  his  life 

Might  be  restor'd — how  painful !  oh,  the  pang, 

The  heart-felt  agony  that  rent  their  hearts  ! 

He  was  a  lovely  child,  and  was  belov'd 

By  all  who  knew  him.     He  bid  fair  to  be 

A  blessing  and  an  ornament  on  earth  ; 

But  Angels  call'd  him — never  more  will  they 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  133 


Behold  his  artless  smiles — will  never  more 
Enfold  him  in  their  arms,  or  hush  to  sleep 
With  kind  parental  fondness — never  more, 
On  the  once  soft,  warm  cheek,  imprint  the  kiss 
Of  fond  affection — never  more  will  hear 
His  little  voice,  which  oft  was  wont  to  lisp 
The  names  of  his  familiars.     By  the  side 
Of  the  bright-blazing  fire,  his  little  chair 
Is  vacant  left ;  yet  wherefore  mourn  his  loss, 
Since  he  has  gain'd — has  gain'd  a  place  in  Heav'n. 
Among  the  blest,  where  sorrow  cannot  come. 
There,  he  has  join'd  his  brother,  gone  before,* 
Where  now  they  shine  two  little  cherub  saints, 
Rob'd  in  bright  vestments — "  for  of  such  is  Heav'n." 


ON  THE   DEATH  OF  MY  MOTHER. 
I. 

THEY  tell  me  thou  wert  passing  fair. 
And  sweetly  winning,  artless,  mild, 

Refin'd  by  virtues  bright  and  rare, 
That  vice  reprov'd,  and  woe  beguil'd  ; 

Shining  like  some  bright  being  sent 

To  be  thy  sex's  ornament. 

II. 

They  tell  me  pale  Consumption  came, 
Wasting  thy  strength  by  slow  decay, 
And  through  thy  delicate-made  frame, 


*Who  was  drowned  at  the  same  place  about  two  years  previous.  In  1831  Mr. 
Lighthall  lost  another  son,  who  was  drowned  near  the  same  place.  A  few  year* 
afterwards,  a  fourtn  son  was  drowned  near  the  junction  of  the  Erie  and  Champlain 
Canals. 


134  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

Eating  and  cankering  its  way  ; 
Spoiling  the  casket  form'd  to  win, 
But  brightening  the  gem  within. 

III. 

They  tell  me  I  was  very  young, 
A  tender  infant  when  she  died, 

Attempting  scarce  with  lisping  tongue 
To  ask  my  early  wants  supplied  ; 

And  all  unconscious  why  they  wept, 

Or  why  so  long  my  Mother  slept. 

IV. 

Yet  faint  remembrance  all  but  fled, 
Oft  shadows  forth  a  quiet  place, 

And  one  reposing  on  a  bed, 

With  pale  and  interesting  face  ; 

Sweet  Mother  !  is  it  thine  I  see 

Far  thro'  the  mists  of  memory  ] 

V. 

And  often  in  the  hush  of  night, 

When  silvery  moonbeams  stream  around, 

And  the  lamps  of  Heav'n  are  burning  bright, 
I  hear  a  voice  of  sweetest  sound  ; 

Dear  Mother  !  is  it  thine  I  hear, 

So  seraph-like,  enchanting,  clear  ? 

VI. 

Is  it  far  recollection's  gleam 
Of  the  departed  sainted  one  ] 

Or  is  it  only  some  bright  dream 

From  fancy's  glittering  frost-work  spun  1 


POEMS    BY    J.    S.    FKELIGH.  135 

I  love  that  face  whate'er  it  be, 
And  that  sweet  voice  of  melody. 

VII. 

No  more  is  seen  my  Mother's  face, 

'Round  the  domestic  hearth  and  board  ; 

Another  long  has  fill'd  the  place, 
Where  once  my  Mother  was  ador'd  ; 

I  love — respect  her  virtuous  worth, 

But  still,  she  did  not  give  me  birth. 

VIII. 

Thy  home  is  now  where  Angels  are, 

While  I  am  left  to  mourn  below, 
To  struggle  on  thro'  seas  of  care, 

And  mists  of  doubt,  and  shades  of  woe  ; 
Oh  !  may  my  conduct  ever  be 
Such  as  would  be  approv'd  by  thee. 


TO   MY  FATHER   ON  THE    SAME    OCCASION. 
I. 

REMEMBER  me — remember  me, 

Let  no  dark  change  my  memory  blot, 

Tho'  separated  far  from  thee, 
Forget  me  not — Forget  me  not. 

Father,  let  not  thy  first-born  son 

To  thee  be  a  forgotten  one. 

II. 

Canst  thou  not  hear,  like  music  low, 
My  Mother's  voice  in  Autumn's  gloom  ? 


136  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

Can  retrospection's  mirror  show 

To  thee  her  face  in  mantling  bloom, 
As  at  the  altar  by  thy  side, 
A  beautiful  young,  blushing  bride  '? 

III. 

Does  she  not  visit  thee  in  dreams, 
And  visions  of  the  solemn  night, 

All  bright  and  glorious  as  gleams 
Around  an  Angel's  face  of  light  1 

Awaking,  vanish,  leaving  thee 

To  the  world's  cold  reality  ! 

IV. 

Yes,  Father,  thou  wilt  think  of  me  : 
Wilt  think  of  her  who  gave  me  birth  ; 

Her  mild  blue  eyes  will  turn  on  thee 
Oft  'mid  the  varying  scenes  of  earth  : 

And  thou  wilt  see  her  in  celestial  light 

And  beauty,  walking  in  the  dreams  of  night. 


THE    LIGHT    OF    THE    TOMB. 

When  the  Past  like  a  desolate  ruin  appears, 

Where  some  wandering  Thought  'mid  the  wide  waste  of  years 

Lonely  broods  : — While  the  Future  looks  dark  as  a  storm  ; 

I  can  see  in  the  distance,  the  bright-shining  form 

Of  the  Angel  of  Hope,  sending  light  through  the  gloom, 

To  disperse  the  cold  shadows  that  darken  the  Tomb. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  137 

ADDRESS    TO    THE    DEITY. 

Thou  Great  First  Cause  of  all  things — Infinite — 
Mysterious — Incomprehensible. 
Father  of  all — above,  and  over  all ; 
In  whom  all  Knowledge — Wisdom — Pow'r  are  join'd  ; 
All  perfect  Goodness — Justice — Love  and  Truth  ; 
Omniscient,  Omnipresent  Lord  of  Lords — 
Sole  Ruler— Self-existent  Deity—- 
Without beginning,  without  end,  First — Last — 
Oh  !  teach  me  Truth. — Give  Wisdom,  Light,  and  Strength 
And  inclination,  to  pursue  a  course 
Most  pleasing  in  thy  sight, — most  for  the  good 
And  happiness  of  man  : — unchain'd — unbound 
By  superstition,  prejudice,  false  creeds, 
Doctrines  or  notions  of  this  selfish  world. 


*-.->  /is^o^ 


LIGHT    AND    HUMOROUS    PIECES. 


TO    THE    LADIES    OF    ST.    LOUIS. 

WRITTEN   WHEN   I  WAS   YOUNGER  THAN   I   AM   NOW. 
I. 

I'M  a  lone  single  gentleman,  seeking  a  wife 
To  smooth  the  rough  edges  of  this  checker'd  life  ; 
"  Don't  all  speak  at  once  " — only  one  at  a  time — 
And  wait  till  you  see  my  description  in  rhyme  : — 
Imagine  a  person  of  moderate  size, 
With  a  very  high  forehead,  and  dark  hazel  eyes, 
And  black  curling  whiskers,  and  aquiline  nose, 
Which  is  sure  to  be  foremost  wherever  he  goes. 
He  attends  not  "  the  Races  " — he  swears  not  nor  games. 
And  is  "  pretty  good  looking" — "  I  mention  no  names." 
*         *          ***          ***          * 

I  have  "  sow'd  my  wild  oats"  and  am  just  in  my  prime, 
I  shall  be  twenty-seven  next  strawberry  time. 
Of  my  learning  and  wit  I  will  not  speak  explicit, 
But  flatter  myself  I  have  "  quantum  sufficit." 
Though  my  courage  I  often  have  screw'd  pretty  high, 
It  will  never  stay  screw'd  when  a  lady  is  nigh. 
This  "  popping  the  question"  does  not  seem  to  me 
"  Just  the  thing"  it  has  often  been  "  crack'd  up  to  be." 
I  do  not  like  parties,  and  go  not  to  balls, 
But  am  happy  to  wait  on  a  friend  when  he  calls. 
I  hate  affectation  and  vain  haughty  pomp — 
j 


142  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

A  libertine,  dandy,  a  flirt,  and  a  romp. 

I  use  no  tobacco,  and  also  agree 

To  drink  nothing  stronger  than  coffee  or  tea. 

I  would  also,  just  hint  to  the  girl  I  would  woo, 

That  I  have  a  competence  ample  for  two. 

Should  I  have  an  addition — an  increase — of  store, 

(Which  might  happen  you  know)  it  would  answer  for  more.  • 

I  own  a  small  farm  and  a  snug  little  cot, 

i;  And  further  than  this  the  deponent  saith  not." 

II. 

And  now  for  the  girl  I  would  wed  : — she  must  be 
Not  under  eighteen,  nor  exceed  twenty-three. 
She  must  have  an  engaging  and  delicate  tact 
To  please — and  her  actions  be  "  right  and  exact : — 
Have  learning  and  wit  just  sufficient  to  be 
Entertaining  when  mixing  in  good  company. 
She  must  know  how  to  kiss,  and  must  know  how  to  smile  ; 
To  sooth  in  affliction,  and  care  to  beguile  ; 
For  to  me  there  is  not  a  more  exquisite  bliss 
Than  a  fervent,  affectionate,  sweet-thrilling  kiss  ! 
Then,  if  fortune  should  frown,  I  will  think  all  the  while, 
At  home,  I  have  left  me,  a  kiss  and  a  smile. 
Her  form  must  be  good,  and  of  medium  size, 
And  the  color  be  blue  of  her  love-beaming  eyes. 
Her  step  must  be  graceful,  elastic  and  free, 
0       And  her  voice  soft  and  low,  like  some  sweet  melody. 
Be  artless  as  innocence,  winning  and  bland, 
And  we'll  walk  on  together  thro'  life  hand  in  hand. 
I  don't  want  a  dasher — the  belle  of  the  city — 
But  one  interesting,  affectionate,  pretty. 
I  will  have  none  that  waltzes,  or  paints,  or  coquettes, 
Or  uses  a  bustle,  or  wears  pantalettes. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  143 


With  extra  accomplishments  I  can  dispense, 

If  she  only  has  virtue  and  plain  common  sense. 

She  must  know  how  to  cook  well,  and  know  how  to  mend, 

Economize,  manage  and  superintend — 

A  secret  to  keep,  or  a  truth  to  unfold, 

And  not  be  a  snuff-taker,  tattler  or  scold. 

She  must  know  how  to  sing  to  the no  matter  who, 

If  she  cannot,  "  I  reckon  "  my  singing  will  do. 
And  her  name  must  be  Helen,  Louisa,  or  Jane, 
But  if  Charlotte  or  Eveline,  will  not  complain. 
I  will  close  with  a  wish,  and  believe  me  sincere — 
To  the  St.  Louis  girls  a  propitious  Leap  Year. 

III. 

Perhaps  in  two  cantos  enough  has  been  said, 
But  the  Muse  is  on  tip-toe  for  "  going  ahead," — 
And  her  fanciful  flights  being  hard  to  restrain, 
Will  excuse  me,  I  hope,  for  appearing  again. 
But  this  is  the  last,  on  a  bachelor's  word, 
I  will  "close  my  engagement "  with  canto  the  third. 
"  The  way  "  I  have  had  the  "heart-bumping"  of  late, 
"  Is  a  caution  "  to  all  in  a  lone  single  state, — 
My  heart  will  go  "pit-a-pat"  even  to  view 
A  pretty  straw  bonnet  or  neat  satin  shoe  ; 
To  hear  of  a  wedding  would  give  me  delight — 
But  the  thought  always  makes  me  so  lonely  at  night : 
And  then  all  my  dreams  are  of  love-darting  eyes, 
.  And  run-away  matches,  and  kisses,  and  sighs, 
And  little  sly  Cupids  are  winging  their  darts, 
Love-tipp'd,  at  a  couple  of  fluttering  hearts, 
And  a  lovely  young  creature,  adorn'd  as  a  bride, 

With  her  hand  lock'd  in  mine,  seems  to  sit  at  my  side 

And  the  thrill  from  her  jewell'd  and  delicate  fingers 
Awakes  me  to  sadness,  and  tremblingly  lingers. 


144  POEMS    BY   J.    S.    FEELIGH. 


Again,  if  I  sleep,  in  bright  visions  I  see 

Two  languishing  eyes  ever  turning  on  me, 

And  cheeks  where  the  blushes  are  playing  with  smiles, 

Like  shadows  and  light  over  beautiful  isles  : 

And  a  voice  softly  murmurs,  "  we  never  will  part," 

When  the  breakfast  bell  rings — I  awake  with  a  start, 

In  lone  single  wretchedness — chilling  despair — 

Oh  !  where  has  the  bride  gone,  "  and  echo  says,  where.'7 

If  a  heart-felt,  enrapturing  pleasure  it  seems, 

To  be  married  in  fancy,  or  married  in  dreams, 

Oh,  what  must  the  pleasing  reality  be  ! 

And  Hope  sweetly  whispers,  "  you  shortly  will  see." 

Some  marry  for  wealth,  and  some  marry  for  fame, 

And  some  to  vex  others,  and  some  out  of  shame — 

Some  marry  because  it  will  consequence  bring, 

And  some  just  for  fun,  or  the  name  of  the  thing — 

And  some  to  please  parents,  will  marry,  and  smile 

Though  their  heart  for  another  is  breaking  the  while. 

Some  think  that  all  matches  are  order'd  above ; 

And  some  think  it  vulgar  to  marry  for  love, 

And  some  over-righteous,  with  intellects  small, 

Consider  it  vulgar  to  marry  at  all. 

But  oh  !  may  it  prove  to  be  my  happy  lot 

To  marry  for  love,  whether  vulgar  or  not. 

And  when  I  propose,  should  I  meet  with  success, 

And  hear  softly  murmur'd  the  sweet  willing  yes, 

My  heart  swift  the  impulse  of  love  will  obey, 

And  leap  to  meet  her  heart,  at  least  half  the  way. 

If  I  do  not  succeed,  I  will  hate  the  whole  sex, 

And  believe  they  were  made  to  torment  us  and  vex. 

And  not  worth  the  having — and  it  shall  be  known, 

I  mean  to  live  single  and  let  them  alone. 

I  wait  the  result  of  these  cantos  to  see, 

While  "  nil  desperandum  "  my  motto  shall  be. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  145 


THE   PEDAGOGUE'S    SATURDAY    NIGHT. 

'Trs  now  the  first  of  winter, 

And  the  leafless  forest  trees 
Are  bending  low  with  icicles, 

And  crackling  in  the  breeze. 

Hoar  winter  has  put  on  his  robes, 

And  even  now  'tis  snowing ; 
And  fiercely  over  Lynnbergh  hills 

The  cold  north  wind  is  blowing. 

Since  early  morn  my  weak'ning  frame 

Has  no  refreshment  found, 
Although  the  gloomy  shades  of  night 

Begin  to  darken  'round. 

So  Pedagogues  and  Poets  fare — 

Especially  on  Saturday ; 
Dire  chaos  reigns  supreme  throughout 

That  slopping,  mopping  clatter-day. 

I'm  stunn'd  with  noise  from  strong-lung'd  boys  ; 

Hard  by  grins  clownish  John  ; 
Three  ribs  are  roasting  in  the  stove 

I  rest  my  foot  upon. 

Nor  aught  besides  save  buckwheat  cakes, 

No  savory  tarts  nor  pies, 
But  three  lean  ribs,  with  buckwheat  cakes, 

For  'leven  must  suffice. 

(But  ere  another  year  rolls  'round, 

I  hope  I  may  possess 
A  different  sort  o'  rib  from  these, 

And  straighter  too,  "  I  guess.") 


146  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

The  children  quarrel  for  a  piece, 
Or  snatch  from  one  another  ; 

The  oldest  of  two  ugly  boys 
Just  now  has  floor'd  his  brother. 

Grasping  each  other's  hair,  they  grin, 
'Mid  pots  and  kettles  sprawling, 

Nor  words,  nor  blows,  nor  aught  can  stop 
Their  loud,  long-winded  bawling. 

And  waters  seem  to  flow  around, 
As  from  some  hidden  spring, 

My  refuge  by  the  patent  stove 
Completely  islanding. 

As  fast  as  Betty  bakes  the  cakes 
They're  snatch'd  from  out  the  pan, 

By  Tim,  and  Zeke,  and  ugly  Kate, 
And  hateful  Julia  Ann. 

A  buckwheat  cake,  big,  black  and  tough, 

I  solemnly  affirm, 
Was  stretch'd  between  two  greedy  boys, 

As  chickens  stretch  a  worm. 

If  thus  the  Yankee  Pedagogues 

Are  treated  on  this  day, 
I  wonder  why  so  many  chaps 

From  Taunton  come  away. 

Our  "  Land  down  East,"  for  good  things  rare. 

All  other  lands  surpasses, 
For  all  the  smaller  streams  are  good 

New  England  Rum,  or  'lasses. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  147 

All  things  grow  ready  made  for  use 

In  that  productive  clime, 
Oak  leaf  cigars,  and  wooden  clocks, 

That  keep  the  best  of  time. 

There,  bass-wood  pumpkin-seeds,  and  hams 

Of  good  white  oak  abound, 
And  wooden  nutmegs  scent  the  air, 

And  pumpkins  smile  around. 

There,  essences  come  down  in  show'rs — 

There,  hail  is  sugar  candy, 
And  every  bird  can  sing  the  tune 

Of  "Yankee  Doodle  Dandy." 

I  have  been  told  in  times  of  old 

The  witches  there  were  plenty  ; 
I've  heard  my  good  old  "  Granny  "  say, 

That  she  had  known  full  twenty. 

They'd  throw  into  some  pond-hole  deep 

A  half  a  score  of  wretches — 
If  drown'd  they  were  deem'd  innocent ! 

If  not,  were  hung  as  witches. 

A  man  must  neither  kiss  his  wife, 

Or  wipe  his  nose  on  Sunday  ; 
And  if  the  beer  work'd  on  that  day, 

The  keg  was  whipp'd  on  Monday. 

My  prospects  here  of  future  joy 

And  happiness  are  small, 
I'll  bid  farewell  this  very  night 

To  gloomy  Sylvan  Hall.* 


•The  school  house,  situated  in  a  wood. 


148  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

I'll  not  delay  another  hour, 

But  after  changing  dress, 
Will  tow'rds  the  "  Bay  State  "  wend  my  way, 

And  ne'er  come  back  "  I  guess." 

gyThe  above   poem  was   written  on  the  first  day  of  December,  1832,  in  the 
midst  of  the  scenes  it  describes. 


OLD  BACHELORS. 

OLD  Bachelors,  I  am  resolv'd 

To  show  you  off  in  rhyme, 
And  make  some  use  of  you  for  oncer 

To  pass  away  the  time. 

Perhaps  you'll  criticise  these  lines, 

I  care  not  if  you  do  ; 
For  though  extemporaneous, 

They're  good  enough  for  you. 

Old  Bachelors  are  selfish  things, 

Their  joys  are  selfish  joys, 
They  move,  and  eat,  and  drink,  and  sleep. 

And  sometimes  make  a  noise. 

This  any  quadruped  can  do, 

And  still  more  useful  be, 
Than  some  Old  Bachelors  I  know 

In  this  community. 

Start  not — nor  say  that  this  means  me, 
I  do  not  mean  to  tell 


POEMS   BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH.  149 


A  single  name,  though  it  should  fit 
Particularly  well. 

Old  Bachelors  !   The  very  name 

Creates  a  sudden  chill. 
An  atmosphere  of  loneliness, 

A  void  they  ought  to  fill. 

Custom  forbids  the  fairer  sex, 
Their  love  to  first  disclose, 

Remember  this  ye  Bachelors, 
And  hasten  to  propose. 

Nor  longer  let  your  future  fate, 

Remain  a  thing  to  guess, 
While  maids  are  waiting  to  be  ask'd. 

And  willing  to  say  yes. 

Resolve  to  pop  the  question,  ere 

Another  year  rolls  past, 
But  don't  "  resolve  and  re-resolve, 

Then  die  the  same  at  last." 

Urge  no  excuse,  make  no  delay, 

Nor  give  the  trial  o'er, 
'Till  you  can  say  at  last,  I  am 

A  Bachelor  no  more. 


WOOD  TICKS. 

SOME  poets  sing  of  forest-walks, 
With  (seeming)  vast  delight ; 

They  never  felt  a  wood  tick  crawl, 
Or  suffer'd  from  their  bite. 


150  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

I  like  an  amiable  fly — •. 

A  flea  chase  is  exciting — 
But  ticks  imbedded  in  the  skin 

Are  always  biting — biting. 

I'm  good  in  a  musketo  fight — 

Bed-bugs  of  any  size 
I  can  contend  with — but  these  ticks — 
These  wood-ticks  I  despise. 

"  Once  on  a  time  "  there  was  a  man — 

An  odd  poetic  wight — 
Who  oft  had  told  his  better  half 

That  wood-ticks  wouldn't  bite. 

Some  folks,  he  said,  were  easy  scar'd, 

'Twas  all  a  silly  whim  ; 
Ticks  ne'er  annoy'd  a  man  of  sense — 

They  never  troubled  him. 

One  day  from  out  a  shady  grove 
He  rush'd — but  what  a  fix  ! 

His  head  was  full  of  poetry, 
His  skin  was  full  of  ticks. 

He  rag'd,  he  scratch'd,  he  smok'd  himself, 
He  wash'd  in  "  Number  Six," 

And  long  and  doubtful  was  the  war 
He  wag'd  against  the  ticks, 

He  now  "  acknowledges  the  corn," 

Is  \villing  to  admit, 
That  ticks  are  troublesome  at  times, 

To  men  of  sense  and  wit. 


POEMS    BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  15 1 


I'd  like  to  ramble  in  the  woods 
In  the  merry  time  of  spring, 

But  ticks  mar  all  the  pleasure, 
And  the  romance  of  the  thing. 

Let  others  sing  the  praise  of  woods 
In  the  "  leafy  month  of  June,-' 

Amid  Missouri's  forest-wilds 
They'd  sing  another  tune. 


THE    ILLS     OF    LIFE. 

THE  ills  of  life  annoying  us 

Along  the  stream  of  Time, 
Relate  my  "  Rough  and  Ready"  Muse, 

In  "  Rough  and  Ready''  rhyme. 

Dyspepsia,  horrid  fiend — I  name 

First  on  the  list  of  ills, 
Oh  !  vanish  with  thy  torturing  train, 

Heach-aches — and  cramps — and  pills. 

The  madd'ning  tooth-ache  tries  me  sore, 
I  groan,  and  fret,  and  storm, 

Thanks  to  the  first  discoverer 
Of  soothing  Chloroform. 

Rheumatic  pains  to  drive  away, 

I  various  pow'rs  combine, 
Salt,  vinegar,  and  "  number-six,7* 

Camphor  and  turpentine. 


15:2  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

Musquitos,  wood-ticks,  "  blue  tail'd  flies," 

In  summer-time  I  fear  ; 
While  roaches,  long-tail'd  rats  and  mice, 

Board  with  us  all  the  year. 

Tight  boots  with  corns,  are  not  the  least 

Of  life's  tormenting  ills, 
And  no  man  patiently  can  stand 

A  shake  from  ague  chills. 

Matching  old  stove-pipe — moving  stoves—- 
And shaking  carpets  too, 

Are  what  I  cordially  hate, 
And  always  dread  to  do. 

No  man  of  sense  was  ever  known 
To  match  a  stove-pipe  yet, 

And  move  and  fit  a  stove,  without 
Temptation  strong  to  fret. 

From  idle  bores  who  roam  around, 

To  see  what  they  can  see 
To  hear  the  news,  or  tell  the  news, 

"  Ye  Gods"  deliver  me. 

I  lose  much  valuable  time, 

By  idlers  every  day, 
This  is  a  serious  loss  to  me, 

They  never  can  repay. 

They  have  no  taste  for  study — still 

Accomplish  double  ends, 
For  in  their  daily  rounds,  they  wear 

Away  both  time  and  friends. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  153 

They  drop  in,  during  business  hours, 

With  care  when  most  perplex'd, 
From  all  such  bores  deliver  me. 

In  this  world  and  the  next. 

There  !  I  have  said  enough  for  once. 

Perhaps  some  other  time, 
My  Muse  will  tell  of  other  ills 

In  "  Rough  and  Ready"  rhyme. 


PETITION   TO    THE    "CLERK    OF    THE    WEATHER." 

LET  others  sing  of  chivalry, 

Of  romance,  war  and  blood, 
Of  beauty,  wit,  or  sentiment — 

I'll  sing  Missouri  mud. 

Though  deep  the  subject,  it  is  far 

From  being  very  clear  ; 
'Tis  also  hard  to  find  the  end, 

Or  bottom  far  or  near. 

The  bottom  must  have  fallen  out, 

For  from  reports  around, 
It  seems  that  for  the  last  ten  days 

No  bottom  has  been  found. 

Around  me  is  a  sea  of  mud, 

A  dismal,  endless  view — 
The  fattest  kind  is  where  I  live, 

On  "  Franklin  Avenue." 


154  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

We  have  of  every  form  and  kind, 
Of  mud,  and  mire,  and  slop, 

From  deep  and  quivering,  fat  and  thick, 
To  very  thin  mud  pop. 

I  plac'd  some  stepping  stones,  to  make 
A  passage  to  my  dwelling, 

But  long  ago  their  whereabouts, 
Has  pass'd  from  sight  and  telling. 

Perhaps  they  sunk  to  China,  where 

Some  Mandarin  to-day 
Exhibits  them  as  specimens 

From  North  America. 

It  has  been  mist  and  drizzling  rain, 
(Sometimes  the  rain  would  pour,) 

And  damp  and  chill,  with  clouds  and  gloom, 
For  three  long  weeks  or  more. 

The  citizens  for  squares  around, 

Solicit  now  together, 
Respectfully,  the  "  Weather  Clerk," 

For  warm  "  sunshiny  "  weather. 


SUNDAY    NIGHT. 

COME  close  the  shutters — stir  the  fire — 

Around  the  cheerful  light 
Of  home  we'll  gather,  and  discourse 

Of  distant  friends  to-night. 


POEMS    BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH.  155 

We  have  no  tabby  cat  to  purr, 

No  little  dog  to  bark, 
But  on  the  hearth  the  cricket  chirps 

Right  merrily — just  hark  ! 

Except  the  ticking  of  the  clock, 

I  hear  no  other  sound, 
The  quiet  of  a  Sabbath  night 

Reigns  undisturb'd  around. 

To  my  imagination  oft 

"  Mechanicville  "  appears, 
With  all  the  old  familiar  scenes, 

And  forms  of  other  years. 

My  village-home  of  "  auld  lang  syne," 

The  steps  in  front — the  hall — 
The  stairway,  and  the  front  room — and 

The  portraits  on  the  wall. 

'Tis  all  a  dream — far,  far  away 

From  early  friends  I  write, 
I'll  waft  them  from  the  circle  here, 

A  warm  and  fond  Good  Night. 


MY    PANTALOONS     OF    GREY. 

Addressed  to  EDMUND  HUBBELL,  ESQ.,  on  receiving;  from  him  a  present  of  grey 
domestic  cloth,  (for  a  pair  of  pantaloons,)  made  at  his  woollen  manufactory,  in 
Hallston,  N.  Y.  Written  in  1844. 

THE  pants  are  made,  I  have  them  on — 

They  fit  me  every  way  ; 
I  take  a  pride  in  wearing  them — 

My  pantaloons  of  grey. 


156  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 


George  "  cut  them  out,"  and  they  were  made 

At  home  the  other  day, 
They're  just  the  kind  I  like  to  wear 

My  pantaloons  of  grey. 

Friend  Hubbell,  how  shall  I  express 

My  thanks — or  how  repay, 
For  sending  me  the  cloth  to  make 

My  pantaloons  of  grey  ? 

I'll  think  of  you  with  gratitude, 

Wherever  I  may  stray  ; 
Especially  when  I  have  on 

My  pantaloons  of  grey. 

Should  they  by  daily  "  wear  and  tear," 

A  hole  or  rent  display, 
They  shall  be  patch'd  and  mended  well — 

My  pantaloons  of  grey. 

Our  "  women  folks  "  at  home  are  not 

Asham'd  to  work — and  they 
Know  how  to  make  or  mend  a  pair 

Of  pantaloons  of  grey. 

And  when  they  finally  "  give  out," 

I'll  save  a  patch,  to  say, 
This  is  a  piece  of  my  old  pants — 

My  good  old  pants  of  grey. 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FEELIGH.  157 

ST.    LOUIS. 

SING  in  your  own  peculiar  way, 

My  "  Rough  and  Ready  "  Muse, 
As  easy  and  as  careless  as 

A  slip-shod  pair  of  shoes  ; 
And  if  you  get  into  a  fury, 
Just  gallop  into  old  Missouri. 
***** 

Stop  at  St.  Louis — clouds  of  dust 

Oppress  the  heated  air  ; 
'Tis  mud  or  dust  the  whole  year  'round, 

And  license  every  where  ; 
For  almost  all  a  license  pay, 
For  driving  bargains,  or  a  dray. 

The  money  rais'd  by  licenses, 

Helps  fill  the  public  coffers  ; 
'Tis  manag'd  to  exempt  but  few, 

Save  rich  men,  thieves  and  loafers. 
The  British  system  of  taxation 
Was  less  oppressive  to  our  nation. 

The  climate  is  so  changeable, 

'Tis  neither  cold  nor  hot ; 
A  kind  of  mix'd  betweenity — 

A  sort  o'  sort  o'  not. 
We  often  have  stirr'd  up  together, 
In  one  short  day,  all  sorts  o'  weather. 

The  "  ager  "  in  the  suburbs  'round, 

And  near  the  stagnant  waters, 
Has  shaken  all  the  toe-nails  off 

Of  half  their  sons  and  daughters  ; 


158  POEMS  BY  J.    S.   FKELIGH. 

The  other  half  we  all  agree 
Are  "  us'd  up  "  by  the  diarrhoea. 

Ticks,  roaches,  or  musketos  leave 
In  every  house  their  trace, 

Which  makes  St.  Louis  every  way 
An  interesting-  place 

For  observation,  to  describe 

The  habits  of  the  insect  tribe. 

It  has  facilities  beyond 
Most  other  places  'round, 

For  drinking  mud,  or  traveling 
By  railroad  under  ground, 

Or  suffering  penance  day  by  dayr 

Thro'  every  sense,  in  every  way. 

All  those  residing  in  this  "  Burgh, " 

I  most  sincerely  pity  ; 
A  dirty  and  mud-drinking  place, 

A  license-ridden  city. 
I'll  leave,  nor  stop  'till  I  get  where 
They  have  good  water  and  pure  air. 


"PUSH    HARD." 

I  SAW  at  "  Mandlebaum  and  Block's,"* 

Not  long  ago,  a  card 
Upon  the  door,  on  which  I  read 

These  simple  words — "  Push  Hard." 

*A  Banking;  House  in  St.  Louis  in  1850. 


POEMS  BY  J.   8.    FRELIGH.  159 


Young  men,  tho'  fortunes  in  the  world 

Are  daily  made  or  marr'd, 
Your  motto,  if  you  wish  success, 

Should  always  be—"  Push  Hard." 

If  difficulties  should  arise 

Your  progress  to  retard, 
Still  persevere,  nor  once  despair, 

But  every  day—"  Push  Hard." 

Be  ever  cheerful  and  content, 

And  always  on  your  guard. 
Against  the  tempting  lures  of  vice, 

And  when  once  right — "  Push  Hard." 

Be  temperate,  industrious, 

And  just,  without  regard 
To  what  the  world  may  think  or  say, 

And  "  go  ahead  "— "  Push  Hard." 

In  pushing  through  the  world  your  way, 

In  passes  dark  and  barr'd, 
Push  always  at  the  proper  time, 

And  then  push  well  and  hard. 


A    VALENTINE. 
Written  by  request,  for  a  young  lady,  on  St.  Valentine's  Day,  1845. 

A  Valentine  ! — a  Valentine  ! 

Now  don't  you  wish  you  knew 
Who  had  the  impudence  to  send 

This  Valentine  to  you  ? 


160  POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH. 

And  don't  you  wish  that  you  could  read 
My  thoughts  as  well  as  this  7 

If  you  could  read  them  all  aright, 
You'd  only  read  a  Miss. 

And  don't  you  wish  that  you  could  tell 
What  I  am  thinking  now  1 

What  prompted  me  to  send  you  this  1 
And  every  why  and  how  1 

'Tis  all  a  mystery  you'll  think — 

'Tis  partly  so  to  me  ; 
Some  mysteries  may  he  explain'd, 

And  some  should  never  be. 

I  wish  you  health  and  happiness, 

Here  let  enquiry  end — 
It  is  enough  for  you  to  know 

These  lines  are  from — A  FRIEND. 


HARD    TIMES. 

Hard  times,  in  their  sudden  and  ruinous  fall, 
Have  come  like  an  Avalanche  sweeping  o'er  all ; 
To  argue  the  cause  of  the  evil  is  vain, 
And  never  can  bring  back  our  fortunes  again  ; 
Let  every  one  take  common  sense  for  their  guide, 
And  dispense  with  the  costly  adornments  of  pride, 
To  "  keep  up  appearance,"  and  misery  gild 
With  the  promise  of  happiness  never  fulfill'd — 
Expenses  proportion'd  to  income  and  means, 
Would  cause  fewer  mortgages,  auctions,  and  liens, 
Then  waste  not  a  moment  in  idle  regret, 
But  every  man's  motto  be,  "  keep  out  of  debt." 


POEMS   BY   J.    S.    FRELIGH.  161 

MUSIC. 

THERE'S  music  in  the  dash  of  waves 

Along  the  ocean's  shore  ; 
And  there's  music  in  the  cataract, 

And  in  the  tempest's  roar. 

There's  music  in  the  woods  and  wilds, 

In  the  pleasant  time  of  spring  ; 
And  there's  music  in  the  voice  of  love, 

In  its  first  low  murmuring. 

There's  music  in  a  pure  warm  pray'r, 

That  makes  the  h£art  rejoice  ; 
And  there's  music  'round  the  cheerful  hearth, 

In  a  mother's  low,  sweet  voice. 

There  is  music  all  around  us, 

In  the  murmuring  of  streams, 
In  the  gentle  voices  of  our  friends, 

And  in  our  golden  dreams. 
*         ****** 

There's  music  in  a  scolding  wife, 

That  keeps  her  house  in  awe  ; 
And  there's  music  in  a  grating  hinge, 

And  the  filing  of  a  saw. 

There's  music  in  an  old  tom-cat, 

Preparing  for  a  fight, 
And  there's  music  in  a  squalling  brat 
At  any  time  of  night. 

There's  music  in  a  yelping  cur, — 

In  a  pig  with  a  cork-screw  tail ; 
And  solemn  music  in  "  Jim  Crow," 

And  «  Sittin'  on  a  Rail." 


162  POEMS   BY   J.    8.   FRELIGH. 

There's  music  in  old  Sambo  Gosh, 
When  he  sings  "  My  Long-Tail'd  Blue," 

And  there's  music  every  morning 
In  the  "  People's  Organ  "*  too. 


CONTRAST    NO.    I. 

All-grasping  England  with  her  servile  bands, 
In  Asia  spreading  waj  and  desolation ; 

Pays  lavishly  to  conquer  foreign  lands, 

Though  famine  stalks  unheeded  thro'  the  nation  : 

Tho'  from  her  laborers  subdued  and  pale, 

The  cry  for  bread  rings  wildly  on  the  gale. 

America,  with  joy  I  turn  to  thee, 

No  foreign  wars,  no  national  commotions, 

The  land  of  plenty  and  of  liberty, 
Improvements,  patent  rights,  and  yankee  notions  ; 

Tho'  "  financiers"  have  swindled  half  the  nation, 

We  still  can  «  go  ahead"  of  "  all  creation." 


CONTRAST   NO.    II. 

A  wholesale  robber,  call'd  in  modern  phrase 
A  "  financier,"  and  sometimes  a  "  defaulter," 

Is  well  receiv'd,  and  spoken  of  with  praise, 
Tho'  meriting  a  prison  or  "  the  halter ;" 

*A  penny  paper  published  at  St.  Louis,  Mo. 


POEMS   BY    J.    S.    FRELIGH.  163 


Thro'  fashionable  life  he  winds  his  way, 
And  soon  becomes  a  lion  of  the  day. 

But  he  who  robs  upon  a  smaller  scale, 

Or  caught  some  trifling  necessary  stealing, 

Is  straightway  taken  up  and  lodg'd  in  jail. 
Without  exciting  interest  or  feeling  : 

The  vulgar  knave  we  punish  and  despise, 

But  laud  the  genteel  scoundrel  to  the  skies. 


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